


reach for the stars

by Sinaala



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Needs A Hug, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-07-11 15:23:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19930267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinaala/pseuds/Sinaala
Summary: For the first time since his time away from the Detective, Lucifer felt a pleasant crackle of excitement.'You don't seem too terrified at the prospect of death', he observed.'Well, the dept is a bit overdue. This was to be expected', said Crowley, 'I've come to terms with it.'





	1. ɪ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ғᴀʟʟ

**Author's Note:**

> What I miss in Lucifer × Good Omens stuff
> 
> Luci and Crowley bonding over the Fall and loving Earth
> 
> 'I'm not nice'/'you want to be good' contrast
> 
> Luci and Crowley just having a chat
> 
> Samael and Raphael names being used super-rarely to make an impact
> 
> More exploring Hell and its demons (Asmodeus, Azazel, Astaroth, Belial, Leviathan, Lillith, Mephistopheles and all others from the cool name squad)

The Lord of Hell had returned to his Throne.

  


It was a bright winter morning, when golden sun rays were seeping like honey in the cracks between the pale clouds, and Crowley knew the call.

  


In a manner much too calm, he pulled his table drawer open, and left it that way; there was a faint pop, a tingling of glass against glass, and Crowley closed his eyes ⸺ he took a long drink.

  


The Lord of Hell had returned to his Throne, and all of the greater and lesser demons were summoned to the underworld.

  


*******

  


They crammed around the Throne, a sharp cliff cutting the sky like a golden peak of a church; ash was gracing the ground like a twisted image of snow. From where he was put, Crowley could make out a red glitter from above; every time The Dark Lord flashed his gaze over the vast rows, a hush befell the crowd.

  


Trials were held; numerous. There was a thin string of demons, manacled, trailing away from the Throne; sealing runes were burning with liquid gold, beading the onyx chains; Crowley was among those.

  


Dromos, and Squee, and all of their accomplices were tried, Lucifer judging them like a human would, and all were sentenced to death. Crowley spared escaping a quick though, however abandoned it soon ⸺ the Lord's Court yard was sealed, writings in gold twisting over the onyx cliffs, so no demon would escape Lucifer's judgement. 

  


'So much for that', he thought, shifting his hands for comfort, the chains clicking gravely.

  


Finally, Crowley was summoned forth.

  


He bore no apparent fear of the Lord, however deep inside terror was slithering within him. He held it under control with as much dignity as a demon could have ⸺ fate was closing in with a sense of finality; Crowley was ready.

  


He had, of course, known this to be nearing for weeks; he smiled grimly to himself with an air of pale satisfaction ⸺ a note was written, and sealed, and now resting safely in his table drawer. Aziraphale would find it ⸺ hopefully, by tomorrow, when his execution would be long past; Crowley didn't want him to do anything rash.

  


'Demons of Hell', Lucifer's voice spread far over the crowd, clear and calm and cold, 'we are gathered today for the trial of this Demon, Crowley, standing before you now. The charges against him are those of Treason, Murder of a fellow Demon, and Evasion of his Duty. The accused will be given a right to defend themself, after the prosecution has spoken.'

  


Lucifer paused, briefly recollecting the one modern trial he had ever been to ⸺ the concept was, of course, modified to fit the nature of Hell's inhabitants. 

  


'Actually, no need for that', ⸺ Crowley's voice was almost swallowed by the whispers of the swaying crowd, so he spoke loud and clear, 'I would like to confess.'

  


Row after row, silence fell over the demons; Lucifer's eyes narrowed, one crimson flash chasing another in his eyes. Then, there was a loud gasp, and a cruel, harsh gust of wind, and the crowd swayed away like soft sea waves ⸺ Lucifer stood amidst the courtyard, gaze fixed steadily on Crowley's golden eyes.

  


'Speak', he allowed, and Crowley did.

  


He spoke of his lies first ⸺ his manner a slight too dramatic for Lucifer's taste, as he talked slowly through centuries of avoiding his duty to Hell; then, of the murder of another demon, and then, of his grandest crime yet ⸺ preventing a war, stopping the End of the World, and 'pushing the Antichrist away from his evil ways'.

  


'And these, my fellow demons, are all my crimes before the face of the Dark Lord', said Crowley, with an air of finality; then, he added, looking over to Lucifer, 'may he be merciful.'

  


A thought had creeped into Lucifer's mind halfway through the speech, and now echoed sharply.  _ Is this clown mocking me? _

  


Lucifer could feel a still air of calmness ⸺ near acceptance ⸺ to the demon; his golden eyes held his own gaze in a steady manner, a dull spark gracing his features; his fingers, however, were fiddling with the chains in ragged movement, betraying nervousness.

  


For the first time since his time away from the Detective, Lucifer felt a pleasant crackle of excitement.

  


'You don't seem too terrified at the prospect of death', he observed.

  


'Well, the dept  _ is _ a bit overdue. This was to be expected', said Crowley, 'I've come to terms with it.'

  


'Most fascinating', Lucifer let out, a mere breath away from inaudible; then, snapping back into a commanding presence, he called, 'Demons of Hell, the trial is over. All are dismissed ⸺ you shall now be back to your work.'

  


There was a moment of stunned silence, followed immediately by a roar of whispers; a blinding flash of red in Lucifer's eyes was all it took to silence them.

  


'My King, what about the traitor?' the one who spoke was Asmodeus, the Devil's Right Hand Man, and his tone held an uncertainty to it.

  


After a lingering moment of thought, Lucifer's voice split the silence.

  


'With him, I will deal myself', his fingers locked round the neck of Crowley's shirt, his wings obscuring the courtyard one moment, the next ⸺ he was gone, and Crowley was gone with him.

  


*******

  


'How long has it been, then?' Crowley's feet hit rough stone with a metallic cling, and he shifted to keep his balance. The room they were standing in was one he had never seen before ⸺ for a split second, a thought crossed his mind that perhaps Lucifer took him up to Earth.

  


Some walls were stone, crisp and rough and textured; others ⸺ glass of a silver-like nature: lights came alive in liquid fire on their surface. The floor was also very much like glass, black and finely polished; a window graced one full side of the room, and beyond it a city burning with a myriad lights one second, the next ⸺ the illusion paled, and Hell's faint, ashen glow shone through. In the middle, there was a piano.

  


With a crisp tinkle of two whisky glasses Crowley was brought back into reality.

  


'Beg your pardon?' he turned to face the sound.

  


'How long have you been staying on Earth,' Lucifer repeated patiently, his manner such that he might have been conversing with a seven-year-old.

  


With a tap of his fingers on Crowley's manacles, he split the metal chain in half ⸺ ringing loudly, it fell. Absently, the demon accepted a drink that was shoved in his hand.

  


'About six-thousand years', he said.

  


'Surprising we never met', Lucifer said, taking a long drink.

  


'Yeah,  _ surprising' _ , Crowley nodded, 'can't say I'm sad at the loss.'

  


At that, the Devil lowered his drink, a dangerous fire stealing into his features.

  


'Watch your tongue', he warned, his voice now low and hard, 'you don't want more Hell's wrath your way.'

  


'I defied Hell all the way to going directly against you, honey ⸺ I'm rather used to its wrath.'

  


'Ah, yes; that', Lucifer's smile was sharp and harsh, but somehow it occurred to Crowley it was genuine, 'you stopped the Apocalypse', it was a statement, calm and steady; Lucifer drank some, waiting a long second or another.

  


'You're not furious?' Crowley asked, mild surprise stealing over his features.

  


'I was', Lucifer said obliquely, and annoyance coloured his voice, 'can you believe Father manipulated everyone into blaming  _ me _ for  _ his _ end of the world plan?'

  


'But you're not furious... at  _ me _ ?' Crowley supplied slowly.

  


'Would've thought that was blatantly obvious', Lucifer threw his hands up in a smooth gesture; marvelling at Crowley's dull wits, 'in fact, I would rather like to thank you.'

  


'Whatever for?' Crowley asked, eyes watching warily from above his glass.

  


'A little thing, really. Only saving the world', he offered Crowley some more whisky, but the demon lowered Lucifer's hand with his own.

  


'It seems I'm so drunk I'm hallucinating', he said, looking at his glass thoughtfully, 'I think I just heard you thank me for saving the world.'

  


Lucifer shot him an annoyed look that Crowley interpreted in his own way.

  


'See, you're annoyed', he waved his glass at him, 'and I'm so drunk.'

  


'I assure you,  _ I _ had nothing to do with the bloody Apocalypse', Lucifer said, 'I didn't even know it was happening.'

  


'Don't believe you; you ain't fooling anyone ⸺ we spoke to you', Crowley gave him a pointed look, sharp with accusation.

  


To the question in Lucifer's eyes, he scoffed, 'You bloody cracked the ground open and rose from Hell, sweetheart.'

  


'I wasn't  _ in _ Hell, you half-witted goblin', the Devil bristled, 'you've all been manipulated by Father, and you haven't even the brain to realise it.'

  


'I was always the smarter one. If I'm a half-wit, what does that make you, hm?' Crowley said, with an air of satisfaction ⸺ despite Lucifer's venomous hiss, and the look he shot him, the demon jumped comfortably to sit atop the black, shiny piano.

  


A soft silence hung in the air, and wave after wave a distant tune flickered from downstairs. A sharp pop split the air, and whisky trickled into Crowley's glass. Lucifer shifted his own in his palm, watching the golden stains climb the clear walls ⸺ his eyes hazed over, and Crowley knew his mind was someplace else.

  


'What is this place?' his words were a soft humm, one that no one, other than Aziraphale, had heard in eons.

  


'Somewhere I'd rather be', Lucifer said simply, and in his smooth, steady voice it made Crowley shiver, 'instead, I'm stuck in this shithole with you.'

  


'Love the attitude', he said. There was another silence, filled with ragged sounds of distant club music, before Crowley added, casually, 'I never wanted to Fall, you know.'

  


'Oh, but I definitely did', Lucifer said, his voice soaked with poison, 'Who bloody knew we would. You all love blaming it on me ⸺ it was by your own free will that you followed me, have some responsibility.'

  


'I don't  _ really _ blame you; not for all of it', Crowley said; then, after a brief moment of consideration, he tried, 'brother.'

  


Lucifer shot him a pointed look, his features turning harsh. The word tasted like dust, rusting ash and withering stone, and golden light.

  


'Why's it "Crowley"?' Lucifer asked suddenly.

  


'Why not?'

  


'Doesn't seem fitting for an Archangel', said Lucifer, watching his face.

  


'It isn't', said Crowley in a simple manner, laying back on his elbows and not for a second drawing his eyes away from the city beyond the window's glittering glass, 'I'm no Archangel, honey.'

  


'You're lucky I like you', he broke for a pause before adding, ' **brother** .'

  


Crowley took a long drink, watching the city lights. He knew it to be Los Angeles, and smiled at the irony of Lucifer's choice. The thought of angels lingered in his mind, trailing vaguely ⸺ he moved from thinking of his siblings to thinking of Heaven; that thought did not stay long, before he thought of his new home.

  


A sudden flash of realization jolted into his mind.

  


'Fucking shit!' swore Crowley, jumping onto the floor with a click and breaking into a sudden brisk pace.

  


'Yes, I rather dislike Hell, too', Lucifer supplied, a slow smile gracing his lips. The demon did not seem to hear him.

  


'Shit, he thinks I'm dead ⸺ what was I thinking? Heaven, what is he comes HERE? So dumb, so _fucking_ dumb', Crowley cursed himself generously, rushing back and forth in a panicked manner. Lucifer watched him in wonder, before commenting.

  


'Mind explaining?'

  


'No', dismissed Crowley, and the Devil elevated an eyebrow with strange elegance; he continued, thinking now, 'no, none of your business. But you may be able to help.'

  


' _ No _ ', Lucifer mimicked, smiling sharply.

  


'You may be able to help a  **lot** ', said Crowley, still pacing, though calmer now; he turned to face Lucifer, and smiled, 'Brother, what say we leave this place?'

  


*******

  


The Gates of Hell were a twisted, looming frame, frowning down from it's cliff, locking the underworld's brightest fires out. Aziraphale had kept his eyes fixed on them steadily for a torturous five minutes.

  


_ Not quite sure what appears to be the catch, _ he thought, sliding a glance over the thin edge of light falling through between the Gate's halves; they were unlocked.

  


Other than the murmurs of temptation trying to lure him in ⸺ which was in itself useless; he was headed in anyway ⸺ Aziraphale had not seen or heard anything unusual. That, more than anything, made him fidget.

  


The Gate held an air of eerie silence.

  


*******

  


' **We** cannot leave Hell; I was just forced back into it', objected Lucifer, eyes trailing after Crowley's pacing frame against the lights of Los Angeles.

  


'Royal  **we** ', said Crowley dismissively, waving a hand vaguely, 'all I'm asking is that you drop me off at the Gates; I'll find my way from there.'

  


'A demon will not roam Earth while I'm stuck under here', said Lucifer. Crowley paused, his eyes lingering on Lucifer's features; reading.

  


'You want up', said the demon in realization, watching his face, 'You left something valuable up there, yes?... Heaven, you have! That explains  _ so _ much ⸺ you found something in Los Angeles, then? ⸺ or,  _ someone _ , rather? An angel yet to Fall, perhaps?'

  


' **Silence** !' Lucifer's harsh, sharp roar split the air, ' **do not, for one** **_second_ ** **, assume I will tolerate you for being my brother. You will not go to Earth. You will stay, and you will** **_obey_ ** **your** **_King_ ** **.** '

  


Crowley froze, and then he  _ did _ .

  



	2. ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʟᴀɴ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale barges into Hell with nothing but a sword, and Lucifer chats around, trying to find out what's up with Crowley.

The lights of Los Angeles were eyes burning gold.

The glass was cold under his fingers as his hand slid over the mirror, aflame; covering and uncovering the the ink-filled shards of buildings, and the glowing studs of windows

Despite the feeling boiling his very bones for the last hour, and despite its urge to leave the place, the feeling of ice against his fingertips gave him a sense of calm. 

The lights of Los Angeles were eyes burning gold, and Crowley never left them with his own; like looking in a thousand mirrors.

***

'So you just gonna ignore me to death?' said Crowley in a loud voice, and the empty room echoed back faintly: 'death, death, death.' 

'Lucifer!' he called again, louder this time ⸺ no answer came; the devil left to attend to work matters, and had sealed the room with crisp, powdery currents twisting along the walls like ash in cold water. 

Crowley hissed, stepping on his right leg ⸺ he used it to try and break out the door ⸺ slowly crossing the evenly shining black pool of the floor. In the past hour, he had given every idea that graced his mind a try ⸺ the balcony was sealed off, beyond reach; the elevator sank down for minutes, stretching hours, and when the door opened he was back to the very same room; the whisky bottles shattered and re-appeared, all one again, back on the shelf.

'Luci?' he called with a sly air, in his mocking voice, 'Lucinda, perhaps, that's a good one? Devil? Oh, Satan? How about Beelzebub ⸺ d'you know they actually think you're the same guy?'

He carelessly slithered his fingers along the piano keys, and, shining in the dim light, the black beast wailed.

'The Great Serpent?⸺ although I suppose that one's actually me', supplied Crowley, 'Abaddon, then? Leviathan? Six-six-six, no? Really now, what's it gonna take?'

He wandered from place to place, fiddling with anything he could find. A silver spark got his attention, and he pulled a flat metal slip from between the old, time-worn books on the shelf.

'Mr. Morningstar?' the carving in the metal was with a delicate hand, pressed into the slip on both sides, 'Is that what you call yourself up there?'

No answer came in the silence, broken only by the distant, pale sounds of music rolling from downstairs.

'Right', said Crowley to himself, tucking the metal slip carefully into his pocket, 'hope you don't mind, awfully sorry.'

The next thing that captured his eye was a skilful carving of a shoe, all metal, small enough to fit in Crowley's fist.

'Lucifer?' he tried again, and then added, more softly, 'I  _ know _ you can hear me! Let me out, won't you? I have important matters to attend to as well ⸺ yes,  _ very _ important. Matters that, in fact, may come barging into Hell with a flaming sword any minute now, ⸺ so let me out! Lucifer? Mr. Morningstar? Oh, for someone's sake, Samael?'

All was silent, for a split second, and then with a gentle tingling of a bell, the elevator doors slid open.

'Oh, thank⸺ well, Devil', a pleased smile graced Crowley's features, as he hurried to cross the floor to the doors. Lucifer's face held a thoughtful expression, much too still to be normal. Not stepping a meter or two, Crowley froze, watching his face.

'Brother', said Lucifer, one absent though chasing another over in his eyes as he looked into Crowley's, 'do you happen to know an angel?'

Some long, cold fingers of bare bone took hold of the demon's heart; and he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

'I… no', he said in the most casual tones, shaking his head, 'no, no, I do not, no; why do you ask?'

'Interesting', meaning stole back into Lucifer's expression, and with that meaning came a sharp smile, 'because Asmodeus just caught one trying to trespass into Hell. According to him, the angel had a flaming sword, and he called for you.'

'Crazy folks you meet in the world these days, am I right?' said Crowley, a sensation muck akin panic taking hold of him; digging its claws into his soul, and grabbing a handful and twisting it; much too faint to be apparent, yet still not faint enough to be ignored, 'did you capture him, at least?'

'No', with a familiar gesture and a sharp pop, Lucifer uncorked a whisky bottle, and had Crowley accept some; when the demon put his lips on the glass, he added, 'Asmodeus killed him before we had the chance.'

Crowley choked on his drink. Lucifer's laugh was harsh, and shrill, and nauseatingly satisfied.

'He got away', still smiling, he slid a new glass half-full of whisky over the smoothly polished bar, 'but tell me, brother, what exactly is your relation to this  _ angel _ ?'

***

Breathing heavily, Aziraphale pressed his back into the burning cold cliff. There was ash in his hair, and a slithering pattern of smudged traces of it on his face, and his hands, and his new, creamy suit.

He had been no match for the Guardian of the Hell Gates ⸺ in every aspect of their battle, Asmodeus bested him with ease. They clashed in the air, crashing each other into the cliffs of Hell, black rock cutting and biting them like shards, like blades.

Somehow, however, in an always miraculous manner, he had gotten away.

Hiding behind a spur of shining onyx stone, he was now frantically thinking. From where he was hiding, he could see Hell stretching away as far as his sight went.

Interlocking trails of cliffs, like snakes clad all in stone, the cells of hell twisted and crossed one another and dug deep into the crispy soil. It was a mass of chipped black pebbles, grinded and cracked to be almost as fine as sand; mixed in with a soft, deep pillow of white ash.

Amidst the shadows of the cells, a sharp, lean clif shot up, buried in the dark clouds of the sky; once, the top had been aflame with a distant red flash ⸺ now, it seemed to Aziraphale, the Lord of Hell had left his Throne.

He let a shaky sigh escape his lips.

***

'Whatever do you mean?' said Crowley, and then met Lucifer's sceptical eyes with his own, and added, 'Terrible whisky you got in Hell, brother; makes me miss Earth.'

'Well,  _ something _ certainly does', said Lucifer, a malicious intent stealing into his voice like fire into a barely glowing split, 'or  _ someone. _ It seems I'm not the only one who's been  _ making friends  _ up above.'

'Dunno what you mean', said Crowley, and slid the whisky back over the bar, 'whatever this stuff is, it's terrible first.'

He broke off, and a thick silence rolled over the room. Lucifer was the one to crack it open.

'Right, well, you  _ should _ know sooner or later we'll find him', he snapped the glass cork closed, and after a moment opened it again, retrieving a metal gold-topped flask from his jacket. It fit in his closed fist. He commented, 'Not the one I had on earth, much smaller. Then again, this stuff is too, in quality.'

'Actually, y'know what, leave it', Crowley asked, 'I'd like some, too. Better than nothing, this ⸺ I got  _ nothing _ else to do.'

'Well, I'll leave you with your nothing, then', smiling sharply, Lucifer stepped towards the elevator.

'Oh, Sam, one more thing ⸺ can I call you Sam? I'm gonna call you Sam', the embers in Lucifer's eyes crackled into ash, and went aflame again; he moved his shoulder away from Crowley's pat in pointed disgust. The demon made an apologetic gesture, continuing.

'Am I just gonna stay here, then? Forever?'

'Oh, call me "Sam" again and you will stay here much longer than that.'

'Alright, you're the boss', said Crowley in a mocking tone, and then added, helpfully, 'literally, y'know?'

'I help me', muttered Lucifer under his breath, and threw Crowley a glance before the elevator door slid over it.

Crowley chuckled softly; then, as reality took hold of him, he sobered up in a flash.

'Shit', he said, picking up the bottle left uncorked and drinking some heavily, 'fucking shit.'

***

'Looking for Crowley, are we, Angel?' a gelid, burning wave washed over Aziraphale, a deep fear closing its fingers around his throat. He hastily turned to face the sound, drawing his sword.

'Oh, that won't do you any good', as the shimmering silver rim of the sword caught flames, shadows leaned back, flickering and growing deeper. In the dim newborn light, Aziraphale could make out nothing but faint sharp features in the ink under the cliff; and two burning eyes that had light of their own within.

Lucifer stepped closer, showing himself in the circle of light; he only slightly crossed the edge, then stopped. Terror was spilling plenty into Aziraphale's limbs, and his fingers grew numb ⸺ still, he stood sternly.

'And, also, it will not be necessary. I'm here to speak, so you can put the toy away', from the tightly-knit curtain of darkness behind him, two angelic wings swam forth.

'You⸺ you have _white_ _wings_?' Aziraphale stammered, control slipping from his fingers like fine silk.

'What? Oh, yes, I'm a fallen  _ angel _ , of course I have wings.'

'But⸺ but they are  _ white _ , demon's wings aren't meant to be  _ white _ ; Crowley's wings⸺'

'Aha!' Lucifer cut in, 'Now, Crowley  _ is _ a matter of interest. Tell me about your relationship, won't you?'

'Our, our⸺ our what?'Aziraphale's nervousness was crisp in his voice, sword still aflame in his hand, 'It's nothing, not at all like... that⸺ whatever you were suggesting⸺ I'm here on orders from above, in fact.'

'Right, I suppose that is why you fought your way through the Gates of Hell without mentioning it ⸺ must be part of your secret orders?'

'It is.'

'Now, now, you're an  _ angel _ , dear ⸺ aren't you meant to be honest? And they call  _ me _ the Devil, can you believe it?'

Aziraphale looked at him helplessly, lifting the sword's sparkling edge ever so slightly ⸺ in his own manner, he was trying to convey the idea of 'I don't know what to say to that, so fight me or leave me'.

'I suppose you want to know why I'm not fighting you just yet', reasoned Lucifer, 'well, firstly, I do not indent to fight you  _ at all _ , so put down the bloody sword. Secondly, I am here to talk.'

Emotions chased one another over Aziraphale's features ⸺ surprise, and suspicion, and wonder. The tip of the sword fell an inch, and he looked Lucifer in the eyes.

'How can I help?'

'Right, you see, Crowley won't tell me a thing', said Lucifer, much to Aziraphale's surprise folding his wings in; he stepped closer, pacing softly, and showing that he was unarmed; then the angel saw a spark in his eyes, when he spoke again, 'so I decided I'll hear it from  _ you _ .'


	3. ɪ ᴄʟᴏsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴇʏᴇs, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ sᴇᴇ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: gotta be honest, this one is short, but i absolutely love it. We see some Luci × Aziraphale interactions, a lil tiny piece of some heavenly backstory, and Crowley being maybe-clever + enter new demon character;
> 
> \+ chapter name is a line from A Million Dreams

Crowley was pacing himself in a nervous step, his twisted reflection curling and slithering over the floor.

Fire never stole into the illusion beyond the silvery glass; every now and then, when his eyes stayed for long enough, the black shards and golden studs faded, the grey and ash and black of Hell seeping through.

Crowley decided he preferred the night view anyway.

He was flipping the metal slip with the name 'Mr. Morningstar' pressed into it in his pocket, yet somehow the metal never seemed to lose the chill of its touch.

'The Devil's tricks', he muttered vaguely. The walls whispered back: 'tricks, tricks, tricks'.

'Trick, trick', echoed Crowley, 'I need to trick this damned room.'

Crowley was pacing himself, his reflection in the glossy floor watching him; its eyes were a familiar glittering red.

***

'Tell me, Angel, what is it you desire?' two red burning discs, two plates of heated metal had captured his gaze; in a desperate manner, Aziraphale tried to guide his eyes away ⸺ they didn't follow.

'I⸺ I want…' he closed his mouth, and, despite himself, opened it again.

'Yes? What is it? Tell me.' 

'I want⸺ to protect Crowley…' 

'Yes⸺ no, no, I know that, it's obvious!' said Lucifer, then put some softness back into his tone, 'No, but deeper, deeper within ⸺ tell me, what is it, what else?'

'I want⸺ I want to know⸺' for a split second he fought it, and then the words came burning out, 'I want to know how Crowley happened to Fall.'

'Oh, really?' a sharp smile slithered over Lucifer's lips, 'What a pleasant surprise, and I think I happen to know the answer you so crave… Oh, I've got an idea, Angel. What say you strike a **deal** with the **Devil**?'

***

_The Archangel wore a silky glow of gold and silver and pearl, and his skin was powdery to the look, pale and white like mid-day clouds. A pair of white wings flashed in a divine light above his head, digging their roots into his back._

_'Ah, brother', a voice said behind him, as Samael's presence sparkled in the air, ringing softly like a handful of silver bells, 'admiring the view?'_

_'Yes, funny', the Archangel answered; his view were clouds sinking and rising and spilling into each other ⸺ he missed wondering from thought to thought in the stars_ , _'I'm thinking.'_

_'Dear, what happened? You barely_ **_ever_ ** _do that!' a soft mocking gave Samael's voice a darker tune, the bells buzzing deep._

_'Still that makes for more time than you', said the Archangel, 'your rebellion is making you bitter. When is it, soon?'_

_'Very', a glint of red stole into Samael's eyes; a glint that the Throne had never seen there before, 'you ought to join us.'_

_'Might do', he said vaguely, 'Who else?'_

_'Beelzebub, Asmodeus, Azazel, Astaroth, Belial', listed Samael, 'me, you. Oh, Abaddon, perhaps? You'd be surprised how many stand with me.'_

_'Father'll be furious', said the Archangel with an air of foreboding, 'absolutely furious. Are you quite sure?'_

_'No', said Samael, and a shadow of surprise graced the Archangel's features, before he supplied, 'the real question is whether or not_ **_you_ ** _are sure.'_

_'So you've made up your mind', reasoned the Archangel, desperate tones stealing into his melodic voice, 'oh, but father_ **_will_ ** _be furious, so bloody furious.'_

_'It appears it is not a question of whether you want to', Samael said slowly, watching the Archangel's face, 'but more a question of whether you have it in you.'_

_'Don't you bloody try and make this sound heroic', the Archangel threw a pointed glance his way._

_'You know I don't lie', said Samael in a pressing tone, one he tended to use when his pride was wounded._

_'No, but you speak_ **_your_ ** _truth', said the Archangel, a mirthless smile gracing his lips, 'not_ **_the_ ** _truth.'_

_'My truth_ **_is_ ** _the truth, brother', said Samael, his passing flash of pride fading down like a pale rose, 'it's father's manipulation that's a lie.'_

_'You may be right', said the Archangel vaguely, 'but you may also not be.'_

_'Too much thought, brother', Samael said, putting some crisp softness into his voice, 'and you're still kept in the dark. Don't you want to finally have some answers, no?'_

_'I do', he agreed, a trace of doubt lingering still in his voice, 'but what if we're not meant to have them?'_

_'Father wants to keep all of the best bits to himself', Samael leaned closer in, his voice falling to a slithering hush, 'but we have the right to know ⸺_ _we should have the free will to_ ** _choose_** _to know.'_

_'Maybe it's something that best be left hidden?' supplied the Archangel, but the lurking undertones stole from his words into his face_ ⸺ _Samael knew he had won._

_'Dear Raphael', he said gently, 'you should have the choice to know.'_

_In seven days he rebelled as Raphael, and in seven days he Fell as Crawly._

_***_

'And that', said Lucifer in a dramatic manner, 'is how Raphael Fell to his doom, the poor damned soul.'

He looked back at Aziraphale, who had been looking at him with eyes gone glassy, and a blank expression chasing away from his features, and stealing back over them every other minute.

They were seated on twisted onyx cliffs, facing each other over the glittering edge of the Flaming Sword ⸺ not ablaze anymore, it fizzled with rare strings of smoke, a gentle fire licking the silver lining that chased round the edge.

Lucifer looked on expectantly, and Aziraphale blank expression had smitten into a deep look; his lip was trembling, just barely.

'Oh Father, has this one broken too now? Hello, Angel, rise and shine?' he snapped his fingers to catch attention; Aziraphale blinked quickly, and his eyes glittered in the light, misty.

'My dear, I'm sorry', he looked at Lucifer, his gaze now focused but still heavy with a manner of mourning, 'it seems I might have gotten a tad emotional there.'

'Angels tend to overreact ⸺ not your fault, I'm afraid, only Father's', said Lucifer, 'now hopefully you will be a good holy angel and uphold your end of the bargain.'

'Yes⸺ yes, certainly', said Aziraphale, shifting the sword in his hand, tiring, 'me and Crowley, was it?'

'Yes, get on with it. What's your relation to my brother?'

'Ah, well', said Aziraphale, 'I suppose starting at the very beginning should be best. Well, you see, there was once a garden ⸺ gorgeous garden, fascinatingly green, fresh air, no rain, trees; well, anyway ⸺ and in this garden, lived a man. Ah, at first, that is ⸺ then God had added on Eve, and then I came over, and then Crawly appeared ⸺ oh, do I ought to call him Raphael now? I should, shouldn't I, after all⸺'

' _Would you get to the bloody_ **_point_ ** _already_!?' roared Lucifer; Aziraphale broke off with a startled gasp, then he started burning in his cheeks.

'Ah, yes, I suppose that would be⸺ uh, it would be best', he said softly, 'I am sorry, my dear⸺ well, Devil, I suppose. No, no, I do not mean any offence ⸺ Dear God, I am so sorry, I sh⸺'

'Stop apologizing', moaned Lucifer, in a manner of frustration; then, he repeated, 'stop apologizing. I am not Father, I don't need your apologies and prayers and whatever else the bastard demands of you; just get on with the bloody story.'

'Right. Yes, yes, of course', Aziraphale's blush had lost some of its vibrant flash, and was now palely dusting his cheeks, 'so, there was a garden ⸺ or, should I perhaps say, a park? It was more of a park, really⸺'

Lucifer grit his teeth tightly, and listened.

***

_It was the Middle Ages._

_'Right, here ya go', a lean, pale-white horse came to a soft halt before a looming frame ⸺ a dusted wooden carriage creaked hollowly at the gentle pull; Crowley the mare on the neck, and crossed the narrow cliff to the Gates of Hell on foot._

_Three sharp metallic knocks split the still, sultry air. Crowley waited._

_'Who goes there?' a booming voice called._

_'Aardvark', Crowley said shortly ⸺ there was another faded silence, and then the Gates wailed. Like a sharp wound, they peeled open, a pale rose ribbon of light streaming through ⸺ then, a tall silhouette cut it off._

_'Crowley!' a smile graced the demon's sharp features; rippling burn scars dug into his face, only ragged and narrow strips of white, creamy skin were seeping through. His golden hair, crisp and powdery to the look, fell to his neck; and he only had one eye._

_'Hi', said Crowley, 'I've got your stuff.'_

_'Oh, so you managed to get it to here', there was mild surprise in the demon's voice, as he crossed over to the carriage, 'Impressed.'_

_He tossed a satin cloth that was topping the carriage, and studied the wooden barrels with wonder._

_''S'called "mead"', Crowley supplied, 'the best Earth's got. Going absolutely crazy over it, up there. Magnificent taste.'_

_'Anything's magnificent, if you go an eternity on Hastur's drink', reasoned the demon, and Crowley agreed. 'You got it here alone?'_

_For a passing moment, Crowley faded ⸺ then, he spoke._

_'No', he said, 'got two men to help. Good men, strong men they are, helped me manage, great sense of humor⸺'_

_'They're dead, aren't they?' said the demon. Crowley gave a sullen look._

_'They are', he said, 'some human disease got them on the way. I think, proximity to the Gates might have done it.'_

_'Yes, perhaps', said the demon thoughtfully, 'bury them, Crowley. And put them on their backs, let them face heaven-ward.'_

_'Not hell-ward?' clarified Crowley._

_'They were good men', said the demon simply. He snapped his fingers stained with ragged burn scars, and one after one the barrels rose into the air, and disappeared sliding between the Gates._

_'You're a rubbish Baron of Hell, Asmodeus, d'you know that?' said Crowley, watching the demon's face._

_'Well, it's not like I ever abused my position to import drink into Hell; so, no, I don't', said the demon, whose name was Asmodeus._

_'_ **_Import_ ** _?' scoffed Crowley, a mild smile stealing into his features, 'you posh bastard, it's called_ **_smuggling_ ** _.'_

_'Well,_ **_you_ ** _smuggle', Asmodeus said, and his mourning expression had smitten into a soft look, 'I_ **_import_ ** _.'_

_'Oh, did you notify Lucifer about this little importing deal of ours, then?'_

_'...no', said Asmodeus, 'that's the "smuggle" aspect of my import.'_

_Crowley smiled, and argued some more ⸺ he had admitted, if only to himself, that he rather enjoyed Asmodeus' company. He was honest, and he had morals, and he seemed to have a grace of understanding in him ⸺ one that no other demon had._

_And Crowley liked his eye. It was plain ⸺ unusually, for a demon; an honest, open blue, with no spark to it other than the creamy freshness of a frank look in Hell. His other eye, the left one, it's ghost stared deadly from the hollow socket._

_When Asmodeus Fell, his face burned in golden flames. They dug deep into his eye-socket, eating at the flesh until there was none left ⸺ only ghost-white bone seeping through._

_That night, Crowley parted with Asmodeus, and felt his eyes watch him trail down the narrow cliff road; one a frank blue, the other ⸺ a hollow, heavy memory._

***

'There has to be a way, there _must_ be a way', Crowley's muttering grew louder; it had been an hour since Lucifer left.

His fingers stirred the golden powder running along the window glass in curls, like grinded ash in cold water. Somehow, he could not go past it ⸺ the air tightened when he tried to pass his hand through, to the point of solidity. 

'This is probably another trick', said Crowley, 'he loves his tricks, Lucifer. Strategy tricks, desire tricks, tricking me into reacting, tricking angels into rebelling, mind tricks…'

He went quiet.

'Oh', he hummed softly, a dawning glow of realisation gracing his features, ' _oh_ , you _bastard_ , no you _didn't._ There's absolutely no bloody way.'

He shut his eyes, sharpening his concentration with an effort ⸺ like dragging a whetstone down a rusty blade, driving himself to believe fully that there was _no_ seal; and moved his hand forth. When he opened them again, the gold waves had circled his wrist, and his fingers could feel the stale and sultry air of Hell.

'Oh, you bastard', laughed Crowley, 'you fucking bastard.'

His reflection in the glossy and polished black floor flashed red in the eyes, then sank down into the abyss.

***

Over Aziraphale's murmuring stutter, Lucifer smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMMENT PLS
> 
> Raphael, Samael and Gabriel are Archangels, and they all outrank Aziraphale. As the author explained in his tumblr (which he has, surprisingly) there are normal archangels, and then there are Archaengels that are the highest rank of them all. So that's why Gabriel is Aziraphael's boss in the show.
> 
> Next chapter we'll also get to see some of Hell, hopefully I can push some more original demons into there somewhere - i just really want to write more of Asmodeus, and Belial, Abaddon, Astaroth, Azazel and all those people cause I find their names so bloody cool. Hopefully a reunited couple of ineffable idiots in another bunch of chapters, and also gotta think of Maze, Amenadiel and ppl🔥


	4. sᴇᴀʀᴄʜɪɴɢ ғᴏʀ ᴀɴɢᴇʟs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ's ᴛᴏᴡɴ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is out of Lucifer's trap, and on his way to the only demon who could be of assistance. Lucifer knows he's gone, but not quite where to. Aziraphale is soft and worried sick for his bf. We flashbsck to him reading the letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'I've been searching for angels in a devil's town'
> 
> Heart to Love - Passenger

'So you are… in love, basically?' said Lucifer, with an air of an acute lack of tact. Aziraphale stumbled over his words, sounds twisting and turning like vines sprouting spikes.

'Obviously, you  **are',** Lucifer's tone was stark with certainty, a subtle glint of an idea stealing into his eyes, 'Oh, but this is  _ juicy  _ ⸺ a dramatic romance, a forbidden love. Almost like Romeo and Juliet. As a matter of fact…'

He caught a glimpse of vague embarrassment chasing a horrified look off Aziraphale's face; and laughed.

'But of course ⸺ you  _ inspired _ them', he retrieved his gold-topped flagon, putting an air of excitement into his voice; the flagon's metal rim coated in thin gold stopped right before his lips.

'Oh, do forgive my manners, Principality', his excitement had smitten into a soft mocking; a flame flickered fiercely over the sword when he offered the metal flagon to Aziraphale, 'Want some?'

'I am not nearly so naive as to accept⸺'

'I'm not going to  _ poison _ you', said Lucifer in an annoyed manner, 'it doesn't work on your lot.'

'Not nearly so naive to trust the Devil's word, either', said Aziraphale, and a crisp light from the sword graced the dark cloth wrapped around them, 'you said you were not here to fight me, but who is to say you will not weaken me with your drink?'

'It's whisky', said Lucifer, in a tone of mild frustration, 'ever heard of it up there, angel? Bit hard to drink with your angelic ego bursting your body open?'

'My  _ ego _ ?' Aziraphale asked, helplessly, 'not ours is the sin of Pride⸺'

'Wasn't pride', Lucifer's smile was sharp when he emptied the flagon in one swift drink, and threw the angel a pointed look, 'merely basic self-respect.'

'No', Aziraphale vaguely shook his head, a shadow of faint doubt lurking in his tone, 'no, it wasn't⸺ Heavens!'

'Definitely was  _ not _ heavens, yes.'

'Just… just tell me what you want in return for Crowley, and let us go; I shan't speak with you any longer!' red stains were glowing, blushing over Aziraphale's cheeks ⸺ in anger, in embarrassment, in frustration.

'What, am I too much of a devil to talk to?' smiled Lucifer, 'Then, too, what makes you think I'll give Crowley back?'

'Well, I⸺ I propose a, a trade', the angel softly stuttered, 'anything I can get you in return for Crowley back ⸺  _ alive  _ and  _ well _ , that is.'

'Define  _ well _ ', Lucifer said; then lingered briefly on a still thought, before supplying, 'anyway, I can't; terribly sorry to disappoint. Crowley seems to have gone.'

'Dead!?' Aziraphale gasped, a rage of terror in the soft sound.

'What?⸺ no. No, he's alive… for now, anyway. I've lost track of him, could be anywhere in Hell.'

'Oh, please,  _ find _ him! I'll give you anything for it⸺'

'Careful, angel', Lucifer's smile was sharp, and his teeth glimmered fangs in the low light, 'words hold more weight when you're striking a deal with the Devil.'

Aziraphale bit his lip; Lucifer's smile faded, like a bowing rose.

'In one thing you're right', he said, 'we'll have to find him before Hastur does ⸺ or Beelzebub, or Asmodeus, or any other demon, for that matter.'

' **We?'** , the angel asked, with an air of distaste.

'Yes', a pained note stole into Lucifer's expression, 'yes, you know him better than anyone. Say, where would your boyfriend go now, after an escape?'

Aziraphale's cheeks went aflame, a heated metal glow washing into them. Lucifer laughed.

***

Asmodeus' chambers were a sliding hall, a long walk twisting round and round Lucifer's onix peak. In Crowley's mind, there was no better place in Hell; the walls were a matte black, beaded in splinters of light cast into the sharp shapes of stones.

A web of glimmering shards rose row after row round the tunnel ⸺ liquid gold, and shimmering scarlet, and a blinding, sharp green; here and there thin ripples of silver ran in strips along the walls. The light dripped into the floor was dimmed by time's white fingers, the stones flattened.

Crowley's steps made a faint echo, stealing over the silent, empty hall. In a break, the walls rose, and Crowley stepped into the Main Hall.

_ Holy Satan,  _ Crowley though. The walls sank into long, vast shelves of onyx stone; one after one they shone softly in the low light of the precious stones; stuffed atop them, were barrels. The air bloomed with the familiar smell of whisky, burned grain and old wood.

'Nice place you got here', Crowley said, to himself.

'Nice life you got', a deep, liquid shadow fell into the tall and lean shape of Asmodeus; leaning back on a soft couch of red and gold, across the floor from him 'glad you got to keep it.'

'Suppose I did, yeah', said Crowley vaguely, in a voice of soft uncertainty. Shifting warily, he stole softly over the outskirt of the room.

'Not for long?' Asmodeus supplied, uncorking a tall silver-topped bottle with a sharp pop; next to him, there were two glasses.

'Not if they find me, no', Crowley said, throwing Asmodeus a pointed glance, ' _ which _ is why I am here, as a matter of fact.'

'Oh,  _ really _ ? Thought you were here for a drink and a quick chat.' with a golden shimmer and a grave click of glass on glass, whisky trickled into one of the glasses.

'Yes, yes, very witty, very sarcastic,  _ well done _ ', Crowley accepted the glass with limp fingers; his voice sank, 'I need you help.'

'About the angel, I assume?' smiled Asmodeus, in a sharp manner; a faint shadow of mocking was lurking in it.

'Correct', a piercing snap split the still, sultry air; Crowley's glass refilled, as he added, off-handedly, 'hopefully this wasn't poisoned.'

'I  _ wouldn't _ ', in mock terror, Asmodeus held a hand to his heart, 'You wound me, dear friend.'

'Yes, I'm sure you're so,  _ so _ sad now', with an unnecessary sniff over the rim of the glass, Crowley drank some; then supplied, slipping off the calm manner, 'Look, Asmodeus, I need your help. I  _ really _ need your help ⸺ and,  _ yes _ , it's about the Angel.' 

'What do you want, then?' said the demon; his hollow eye socket twinkled with a distant smile in a mischievous manner.

'Get me out of Hell', said Crowley, leaning closer in, his voice falling to a slithering hush, 'away from Beelzebub, away from Hastur, and away from bloody Lucifer. I need out.'

'Interesting', said Asmodeus, 'and why would you want that?'

'Oi, no questions', Crowley said in a mildly protesting manner; Asmodeus smiled.

'Fine, secretive little demon', he gave his whisky a thoughtful swirl all round the glass, watching the light dance in it, 'What do I get out of it, then?'

'See earth? Promise I'll buy you a drink.' Crowley offered, 'no, really, stop smiling. Try some drinks, some girls, see the  _ world _ . Must be a bore being stuck down here?'

'It is', agreed Asmodeus in a soft humm; a sad smile graced his lips, 'Try again, you can do better.'

'I s'pose I can', Crowley bit his lip in a dramatic manner, consideration chasing over his eyes, 'yeah, no⸺ how  _ about... _ a chance to redeem yourself?'

' **Pardon** ?' Asmodeus elevated the single eyebrow he had; interest stole a spark into the blue of his eye.

'Reuniting an angel with his goal ⸺ might earn you a nice little bit of Holy forgiveness, if you know what I mean?'

'Suppose I do', Asmodeus' gaze was heavy with a manner of painful memory, hazy.

'Come on, I know you want to', urged Crowley softly, in a voice of one treading carefully, 'Fascinating, that ⸺ not like anyone else I've known.'

'You know me too well', his murmur was a sliding manner of tone, low and flickering. 

He considered some more; then, clarity stole gently back into his eye, chasing the faint clouds off the blue.

'You think I'd risk inflicting Lucifer's wrath for a bit of whisky and a vague promise?' Asmodeus' clear eye narrowed, watching Crowley's face.

'Yeah, you would', he smiled.

'Yes, I would', Asmodeus agreed, clicking his tongue in soft approval, 'Right, then, I'm in.'

Crowley slid his empty glass back onto a glistening, polished table top, and extended an open hand; the smile that graced his lips was wide.

'Marvellous.'

***

'I will  _ not _ help you', tried Aziraphale again, in his soft voice.

'Shush!' Lucifer slithered; he seemed to have decided that they had a deal all by himself, 'Just concentrate and  _ think _ already.'

'Honestly, you must understand, I shan't; I  _ cannot _ lead you to Crowley', Aziraphale's softness had smitten into a desperate note.

'Just think, don't be useless, sunshine', Lucifer said, with a smile that glimmered in a manner of a blade.

'No, I  _ can't _ ', the angel repeated, 'you'll kill him, or imprison him all over; perhaps, alone I could⸺'

'It's either that you find him with me, angel, or we go find you a cell', Lucifer said. Aziraphale opened his mouth, but no words came ⸺ only a burning breath of the boiling air. After a brief moment of thought stealing over his face, Lucifer supplied.

'However, alright; we shall strike a deal if we must', he rolled his eyes, 'I solemnly swear, on my honour as the Devil, that I shall not hurt not chastise my brother any more than is strictly necessary ⸺ there, all good to go now?'

'Are we⸺ what, no, no, of course  _ not _ ,' Aziraphale gasped softly, 'how can I trust you?'

'Oh, that's easy; I don't lie', Lucifer's smile was treading into sweetness, and that more than anything made the angel wary, 'It's like a moral code ⸺ not that an angel would know.'

'I beg your pardon?' Aziraphale bristled, 'angels are beings of love, and compassion, and truth, and, and⸺'

'Hush, angel; I don't care', said Lucifer, 'really, now, do we have a deal?'

The pale skin of his hand glimmered like marble in the dim light of the sword, low flames running over it; almost transparent in its whiteness. Aziraphale considered, only briefly.

'I'm going to regret this so much', he mumbled to himself, his touch light and feathery on Lucifer's skin ⸺ treading with care.

'Likewise', the Devil smiled at the handshake, and hastile broke it off the next moment, 'Now  _ think. _ Chop-chop.'

***

'So, how does this go, then?' asked Crowley softly, not letting his eyes wander away from the gates of Hell; he was leaning towards the ground behind a twisted cliff, watching them.

Asmodeus stood tall next to him, as Crowley listed, 'Are we gonna smuggle me out in a wooden barrel? Dress me as a woman? Shall I hide in a book chest? Perhaps, we have an accomplice ⸺ shall we knock twice, then twice more?'

'You're way too excited', Asmodeus' smile was light and a spark dismissive, 'no, we're going to walk out like it's nothing.'

'Ooh, the old Catelyn Stark approach, I like it⸺ hold on, we  _ what? _ '

'Best place to hide is in plain sight', reasoned Asmodeus, 'it will all be good, as long as you act casual. Just walk like you own the place, and if someone sees ⸺ they won't expect you to be all in plain sight, and calm about it.'

'Clever, always so clever, aren't you', frowned Crowley, but there was no anger in his tone ⸺ but soft fascination.

'I am', agreed Asmodeus' calmly; then added, as Crowley straightened from underneath the cliff, 'tell me, then ⸺ where to?'

'England, London', smiled Crowley, with a deep note of excitement, 'and maybe a quick lift to Soho, if you can?'

***

_ Aziraphale's fingers were pale and pristine in a manner of marble, enveloped in a crisp white glow; against the sleek blackness of the paper. The note ⸺ a slip of paper beaded in Crowley's quick hand ⸺ was in an open drawer in the demon's flat when he arrived. _

_ The letter read with a deep note of regret; _

**_Dear Aziraphale,_ **

**_I am dead._ **

**_Won't lie to you about this ⸺ if you're reading this letter, I am long dead. Hopefully, that is. Don't want you having any ideas._ **

**_So, simply, Hell is calling me back down ⸺ it's pulling, more like, and there is no way that I resist._ **

**_I am, of course, writing this letter long in advance ⸺ knew I couldn't evade Hell's justice, however twisted it may be, for much longer. So I have nothing but time now, even if it only that version of me which is frozen in this page._ **

**_Firstly, I want to tell you that you shouldn't blame yourself ⸺ cause I know you will, you always do. But don't. It's not your fault, none of it ⸺ actually, it might help that I note that it was with your help that I managed to last this long._ **

**_Secondly, don't grieve for me. I mean, I will be flattered if you spend a night or two crying over a vile demon in a pub ⸺ but, really, don't. It wouldn't make me happy to see you cry over me, so don't cry for me. Much ⸺ try not to get a new best friend just too soon._ **

_ And so the letter went on, line after line flowing down the page; Aziraphale only chased them after. Finally, the end came, and it was this; _

**_And thirty-secondly, Angel, I want you to know that whatever shithole I end up in after I am fully and surely dead, I will miss you._ **

**_I love you,_ **

**_Crowley._ **

_ Aziraphale crumpled the paper in his white fist; then, he reached for his sword. _


	5. ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴡᴇ ʟɪᴠᴇ ɪɴ ᴅᴇsɪʀᴇ

The bookshop was still, a painting in peach, and chestnut, and honeyed gold.

The air tasted of dust and crisp centuries; it smelled of pumpkin, soft bread and roasted up fruit peel. When the doors parted, a rose shiver of light falling from the crack, he finds rays of light - gold, and orange, and flame - seeping like honey through the pastel leaves of books; through narrow windows.

'He's been cooking', Crowley said, sniffing the dusty air, stealing with care between polished wooden shelves.

'He doesn't have to eat', said Asmodeus, wondering.

'No, but he likes to', his voice held a deep note of fondness to it, trickling in his words.

'Right; where is he, then?'

Crowley spared the kitchen a glance; the smell of pumpkin, soft bread, fruit peel graced the air more still, his eyes flashed with a sentimental air.

'Dunno yet', he slid up the twisting stairs, cracking open every door; chasing thoughts over Aziraphale's desk, paved with sheets of creamy, powdery paper ⸺ he supplied, 'has to be here, somewhere.'

'Don't think he is', said Asmodeus, his eyelid lightly falling, 'I can't sense him. Must be elsewhere?'

'Yeah, elsewhere', a brief thought steals into his eyes, not yet in a manner of worry, 'there's always my place. Then, perhaps, Tadfield, with the humans ⸺ but only if you injured him.'

He shot Asmodeus a pointed glance. 'Did you?'

'What, injure him?' a shadow graced his ragged features, bringing the deep scars to seep golden light, 'define  _ injure _ .'

'Well, did you⸺ I dunno⸺ stab him? Did you draw blood?' offered Crowley, his searching look smitten into a soft shard of danger.

'No', Asmodeus said; Crowley's look lightened a spark.

'My place it is, then', he waved an inviting hand; they both slipped through the doors and stole gently down the street.

The bookshop was still, a painting in peach, and chestnut, and honeyed gold, and two glasses glimmered lonely on the kitchen table; there was untouched wine.

***

_ Fascinating, what Raphael managed to find,  _ though Lucifer with an air of dark satisfaction. The angel's eyes were swirled over with a faint haze, his mind elsewhere ⸺ he had sheathed the flaming blade, never parting his fingers of the handle. Shifting for comfort every now and then, with grave clicks of metal on stone; he though.

_ Oh, Chloe, _ he mused, sliding his fingers over the gold-topped flagon, uncorking it with sharp metallic bites in a frantic manner,  _ I so wish I were up there. You cannot glide here on angelic wings to come save me. I rather think, not in your worst thoughts nor deepest nightmares would I have you down here.  _

The hollow of the flagon watched him, a judging glow from the darkness ⸺ open and closed, and open and closed, and open ⸺ the flagon clicked, glimmering gold, in a manner of blinking.

_ Wherever I go, Hell does follow. Wherever you are, my Heaven goes. A cruel irony, Father's no less  _ ⸺  _ the manipulative bastard; and then it is me who they accuse of toying with human fates. How bloody flawed this is  _ ⸺  _ whatever those white fools up there may think, or want to ask, or doubt  _ ⸺  _ no chances to know nor ask for the Holy. Doubt is the wicked, as is a mind. _

_ Ask the Devil  _ ⸺  _ you Fall  _ **_with_ ** _ me; ask God  _ ⸺  _ you Fall  _ **_like_ ** _ me. Bliss is theirs that do not ask; not think.  _

Lucifer spared Aziraphale a look, a glance of sharp though and mild interest; his eyes flashed, then narrowed.

**_You_ ** _ haven't Fallen. You haven't burned, not stained your wings  _ ⸺  _ whatever is Father playing at here? Befriending the Serpent of Eden, stopping the great Divine bloody bullshit of a Plan, falling in love, perhaps  _ ⸺  _ yet  _ **_you_ ** _ never Fell. How come? _

The flagon clicked closed with an air of finality, and slid into his pocket. He heard Hell grumble and growl and wail in the burning distance, the sounds smothered by the stale, sultry air; drowning out one another.

_ And Raphael  _ ⸺  _ or, I suppose, Crowley now  _ ⸺  _ what on Earth happened to him? So much for 'never being to Heaven again', dear brother  _ ⸺  _ this angel is Heaven incarnate. And still, after all he had done, he still  _ **_is_ ** _ Heaven, and in it  _ ⸺ _ whatever happened to Father's righteous wrath?.. _

It then occurred to him in a slow though, in a fashion much too late, and he called for the angel.

'Oi, white-and-fluffy?' meaning stole back into the angel's open, frank blue eyes; he looked over, 'What are you called?'

'Aziraphale', the look the graced his features was a dawning manner of kind; then, he spoke softly, 'I am not sure as to what I might call you, now?'

'Just Lucifer's alright, although you can always go as far as calling me Mr. Morningstar', the sharpness of his smile first bloomed, then it had faltered, a dull spark of a memory to his expression.

'Lucifer it is, then', supplied Aziraphale, a good look in his eyes for a smile. 

'Right, enough of that, then', in a sharp gesture, Lucifer clapped his hands, cracking the silence open, 'where is my dear brother now?'

***

'I don't understand', muttered Crowley, with a high note in his tone, 'not here, not there ⸺ where is he, then?'

'Perhaps we ought to stay, and wait some', offered Asmodeus, uncertain in the voice. Bristling, Crowley put a slither of winter in his eyes, casting the demon a side glance.

They were in Crowley's flat ⸺ the walls stretched vast, and rough, and grey all round the room; the very same grey tone streaking over the floor, which was scraped clean. In the middle of the room rose a table, and atop it sat Asmodeus. Crowley spilled himself into the chair to his left, and let a cold silence roll over the room.

With a musing ring of glass on the glossy tabletop, Crowley snapped back into reality.

'A drink?' Asmodeus smiled in a soft manner, watching almost lovingly as golden whisky trickled into the glasses ⸺ one, then the other, and then sliding over the black shine it was.

Crowley caught it, and in one split of a second it had emptied.

'More?' offered Asmodeus, his voice kind. Crowley spared it a quick though; then lingered.

'Asmodeus', he said carefully, suspicion thick in his tone, 'you trying to make me drunk?'

'I am', the demon agreed, in his frank voice.

'Why?'

'Suppose you'll think of a thing that way', he shifted for comfort in the glossy surface, his medieval armour clattering softly.

He wore a magnificent deep red for a mantle, spilling down to the very grey of the floor; enameled onyx plates shaped like leaves forming his shoulders that glittered in the dim light. Cotton and leather was soft round him ⸺ tunic, and free breeches, and boots woven of leather straps.

He had caught a handful of strange glances trailing him as he walked the streets.

'A  _ thing _ ?' Crowley repeated, in a manner of savouring the thought.

'You're not bloody drunk enough to take me seriously; drink', the glass, filled anew, was shoved back into his fingers.

'I can think of a solution without getting drunk', reasoned Crowley, setting the drink down with a melodic click.

'As you wish', said Asmodeus, sniffing the drink over a sparkling rim ⸺ savoring the hints, and colours, and the soft lurking undertones ⸺ apple, and toffee, and honey, and herbs of a kind. When his eyes slid open, he caught Crowley watching his face.

'Ah, I see what this is about', he smiled, almost benevolently, and the grace that slid over his features looked to Crowley almost divine, 'you expect me to poison you. Perhaps, you don't suppose we are friends anymore?'

'We are', stealing round the subject, Crowley said, 'we are. Look, I'm sorry, alright? Angel is missing, and I don't know what to do. And you're  _ really _ not much helping.'

'No need', with a smooth gesture of the hand, Asmodeus silenced him, 'you're justified. Here.'

He took Crowley's glass by the rim and drank. Watching him do so warily, in his eye the demon saw a sadness stealing over. Not liking it in the feeling that echoed through his head, Crowley said.

'Right, right, I'm sorry ⸺ just checking. For security, y'know?'

'I know', with that same sadness still, blunting over and fading down, said Asmodeus, 'now, the angel?'

'Yeah', said Crowley, 'yeah, the  _ angel. _ What other trail do we have? Where else, on Earth, may he be?'

'Suppose', said Asmodeus vaguely, a smile chasing over his features, twisting the generously scarred expression, 'could he have followed Lucifer's trail? To when the Lord used to live up here?'

'I dunno, could he have?' Crowley said, shifting in his place; thought gracing his look, 'back… where to? Oh, Los Angeles ⸺ like the tower?'

'The tower?' repeated Asmodeus, watching realization dawn and set Crowley's eyes ablaze with a manner of satisfaction; as he spoke, he produced a thin metal slip from the pocket of his jacket

'Luci being sentimental, forget it', said Crowley, who was now smiling fondly at a thought of his own; he put the cold, glossy metal in Asmodeus' palm, and the demon studied it with care, 'yeah, bloody hell ⸺ get up, Asmodeus, get your wings. Lucifer bloody Morningstar's returning to the city of Angels!'

***

'I suppose, the reasonable thing would be to assume that he left Hell?' offered Aziraphale, with an air of uncertainty.

'Don't be absurd', Lucifer scoffed, laying back onto the glimmering onyx stone; letting his gaze wonder, 'he can't have left ⸺ Asmodeus is guarding the gates. You've fought him, Crowley stands no chance.'

'Yes, I suppose you are right', said Aziraphale. Eternal dusk streaked Hell's skies, and with the sword sheathed and not alight, darkness graced his features like soft sea waves. He looked old, and older still by the minute.

'Of course I am', smiled Lucifer, an acute sharpness smitten into his features; then, his smile faded, ' _ think _ , angel. The sooner we find my brother, the sooner I'll get to kick you both out of here.'

'Oh dear, do you mean to say you'll be letting him go?' Aziraphale softly gasped.

'I mean to say I am running out of patience.'

'Well, dear, you can think too, you know', supplied Aziraphale with a stern air, 'surely, you must know Hell a great deal better than me.'

'If I had any bloody idea where Crowley is I wouldn't still be stuck with you now, would I?' reasoned Lucifer, offering Aziraphale a sharp look.

'If you must know, I am much the same ⸺ wherever Crowley is, it's beyond me', then, there was a brief silence ⸺ before a sharp, harsh gust of wind tore at the angel's hair. Lucifer had let his white wings spill free, a slithering ivory light clouding them ⸺ the fires of Hell put in them the golds, and the flames, and the melting iron of the raging panes.

'Right,  _ Aziraphale;  _ get up', Lucifer instructed coldly, 'this has been a perfect waste of time so far, but perhaps we can make up for it. Fly with me, and tell me about the time that I, according to Crowley, 'bloody cracked the ground open and rose from Hell'.'

'But… what of Crowley?' Aziraphale's voice had stolen softly into confusion.

'What of him? Think of something while you talk ⸺ or look for him down there; maybe he's not smart enough to hide', he smiled sharply, 'But, most importantly, focus on what matters the most.'

'Finding Crowley?' Aziraphale offered.

' _ Me' _ , said Lucifer, with a colour of annoyance put in his tone. At that, his wings spilled over the sky, and then he rose into air ⸺ with a manner of vague worry, Aziraphale followed.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time gonna see Crowley doing his best Lucifer impression in LA, and also Chloe is gonna appear any chapter now♡


	6. ʀᴇᴀᴄʜ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴀʀs

LOS ANGELES, Asmodeus found, reminded him not at all of Hell. The air was crisp, and had fizzy, sizzling light spilled all over the sky ⸺ at night; ⸺ and the vast streets were alive with voices. Shrill, and loud, and many a number, they soon caused his head to ache ⸺ he told Crowley he much preferred the bubbling, sultry silence of Hell.

His new face was faintly aflame with a manner of fleeting burn.

'You can't bloody have  _ that _ on your face', Crowley had said with pale distaste, and taught Asmodeus of creating a new one ⸺ gone were the burns, melting off the skin, and the hollow socket seeped flesh back; it felt hollow still.

'Crowley', Asmodeus said, following him down a crowded street; the demon lightly hummed, not taking his eyes off the screen of his phone, 'Crowley, why are all the women looking at me like that?'

'What? Who is?' Crowley threw a glance his way, and clicked his tongue with a sly smile; he saw a young blonde wink at Asmodeus, 'you got a pretty face, 'course they're staring.'

'I am aware', said Asmodeus vaguely, with an air of doubt, 'but I thought human females are supposed to be more… modest? When approaching males, that is?'

'Yeah, no, that was the fourteenth century, honey', Crowley smiled sharply at the memory of the demon in his armour; and the look on the face of the shop cashier ⸺ he reckoned, Asmodeus would look good in a suit.

'Good', reasoned the demon, curiosity stealing into his eyes as he cast a glance down the street, 'never liked all that anyway. Hard to tempt them into lust with all those inhibitions.'

'Oh, you've missed  _ so _ much indeed', Crowley said, as they crossed the road to a tall building of shimmering glass, digging into the black sky pane after pane; the flash neon sign read LUX, 'these ones, won't even have to tempt them. Do that themselves.'

'Impressive work', Asmodeus said in a tone of admiration, observing the sign that read LUX with a growing curiosity still, 'is this some manner of magic? How's it glow?'

'Not magic, just kinda, sorta... people stuff', Crowley stopped on the pavement at the foot of the building, looking it up and down with a sharp eye, 'we're here. This is the club Lucifer owns.'

'A  _ club _ ?' Asmodeus wondered, gazing at the glossy, shimmering peak of the building scraping the night sky above, 'like a brothel?'

'Essentially?⸺ yeah, fair point', Crowley produced the shiny metal slip with the words 'Mr. Morningstar' pressed into it, and examined it once more, 'now, s'what you have to remember. My name is Lucifer Morningstar ⸺ spelled like this. Own the club, own the penthouse above. The website said, it's still owned by Luci, but ran by one Mazikeen Smith.'

'Mazikeen?' said Asmodeus, 'think it's  _ our _ Mazikeen, then?'

'Yeah, most likely is', distaste stole into Crowley's tone, 'important thing is that we don't run into her. I'm most definitely not gonna beat her, and you're most definitely not gonna try. Gonna attack either of us whatever the case, you know how dear old Maze is.'

'All too well', there was a manner of a smile in his voice, as he lolled his head backwards ⸺ trying to find the top of the building buried in the night sky.

'Right, so these', with a crisp snap of his fingers, the metal slip turned into a pack of papers neatly slid into a pile inside a glossy filewrap, 'say I own the place.'

'What about your face?' said Asmodeus with uncertainty, 'You look nothing like Lucifer.'

'Devilishly handsome enough, should be fine', Crowley ignored the pointed look of mocking doubt Asmodeus offered at that, ' _ anyway _ , nothing a quick mind trick miracle cannot fix.'

'Right', smiled the demon, running his fingers through his powdery gold hair that fell to his shoulders, 'we go in, then?'

'We go in', said Crowley, flipping through the neat paper stack. 

***

THE fires of Hell stirred and boiled beneath them, like a brew of melting gold; glowing red, and wailing, and spilling with smothering heat.

They were seated atop the tallest peak, buried in the ashen sky; it graced the onyx cliff like snow did stone. Lucifer had leaned back into the embrace of his Throne, and Aziraphale sat stiffly on a mass of rock growing sideways.

'You cannot  _ possibly _ be implying that you  _ didn't _ do what you did that day?' Aziraphale said, his skin paling and flushing and prickling in the stale, sultry air of Hell.

'Oh, I am', Lucifer said, his eyes thoughtful, 'Exactly what I'm implying. How would I've done it?⸺ was in Los Angeles then. No, I'm certain of it; I had nothing to do with it.'

'Have you not?' said Aziraphale with doubt, 'I cannot say I fully believe you.'

'Well, tough, angel', said Lucifer, a frown gracing his sharp features, 'I don't lie.'

'Please; you are  _ the Devil _ . How is that possible?' 

'Moral code,  _ angel' _ , Lucifer pointedly smiled, 'like I said, a term foreign to your kind.'

'Most definitely is not', Aziraphale's tone in was an almost offended manner; such was the look in his frank eyes, too, 'angels have a divine notion of honour, one that⸺'

'Thank you for your input, rant services are currently unavailable', Lucifer gritted out, a smile gracing his lips, 'please call never.'

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it; then tried again, and again failed ⸺ a flush stole up his cheeks.

'Anyway, that doesn't matter', Lucifer supplied, his tone now light, 'what matters is that that we clear my name.'

'Clear your  _ name?', _ Aziraphale scoffed, his voice keeping a kindness to it, 'but… what of Crowley?'

'Forget about him, will you? It's of no importance ⸺ he's obviously not in Hell', Lucifer threw a pointed glance the angel's way, displeased, 'I couldn't sense him anywhere we flew over ⸺ he's crawled out, somehow. I did tell you this before, you angels never listen.'

'You  _ dismissed _ it!' Aziraphale said heatedly, his face causing Lucifer to smile.

'Of course I didn't, wherever did you get that idea?', he shifted in his Throne seat, fingers drumming thoughtfully on the onyx stone, 'Angels, so hard to talk to. Anyway, like I said, you'll pay it no mind ⸺ we're staying here and restoring my good name.'

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, but with a sharp gesture of Lucifer's hand in snapped back shut.

'Hush now ⸺ the answers are: yes, I think I can order you around; yes, you will do as I say; yes, I will let Crowley go freely in return; and yes, you can't walk around looking like that', as words rolled by, Aziraphale's expression grew more conflicted by the minute; and Lucifer's voice grew more mocking in its turn, 'However, worry not, God's brave soldier. The solution is simple  _ as Hell _ .'

***

THE string of people trailing away from the entrance rolled on for long. When their turn had finally come, Crowley's manner had shifted into one of a demon annoyed beyond measure. He gave the guard, a tall looming man of a tight build, a sharp glance and a fake smile ⸺ he produced the papers.

'You are Mr. Morningstar?' the guard said in his gruff voice, looking Crowley up and down with a doubtful frown, 'don't look like 'im. Get outta 'ere.'

'The papers?' said Crowley, his voice calm and cold, not shifting under the guard's stern gaze 'Legitimate, are they not?'

'You're not 'im', the guard repeated, frowning down in a threatening manner, 'Get out, or imma  _ make _ you.'

'Humans, so much bloody work', muttered Crowley to himself in disapproval; he heard Asmodeus' snide smile in his distant chuckle. A sharp, crisp snap of his fingers split the air ⸺ the guard's small eyes glossed over, hazing.

'Welcome back, Mr. Morningstar', he said, monotonously and kindly, and shifted aside ⸺ with an air of glee, Crowley shoved the papers out of his fingers, and let Asmodeus follow him by.

LUX was bubbling with people, the crowd swaying like a stormy sea from one wall to the other, and spilling freely up the stairs. Amidst the matte black floor, a glossy piano towered like a cliff; a young lad in a fancy suit sang at it. The fall of glow streamed onto him from above, and the room seeped with the smell of alcohol in the dim lighting.

'So  _ naked _ ', marvelled Asmodeus, sweeping an interested glance over the room; he dove after Crowley into the crack in the crowd, 'are clothes expensive in these times?'

'Yeah, not really', Crowley's voice was barely there, drowned out by the familiar music he had heard in Lucifer's tower, and the buzz of the people; he pushed into a free space, and lingered, drawing a breath, 'so hot. See a way up anywhere?'

'Possibly', Asmodeus gestured across the room, and Crowley squinted to make out the glossy, silver doors of the elevator.

'Bingo!' he muttered under his breath, and then caution stole into his features as he shot a handful of glances around, 'Don't see Maze. Come on, let's hurry ⸺ the guard will realise what's happened soon enough.'

'Will the Royal Guards arrest us?' asked Asmodeus excitedly, and smiled in a manner of confusion at Crowley's face; they dove back into the crowd.

' _ The Royal Guards? _ Dear Luci be damned, have you really no clue? Living under a rock?'

'Actually⸺' Asmodeus started with an air of glee, but Crowley groaned and cut him off.

'Y'know what, don't actually answer that', he stole up the stairs, and slipped over the outskirts of the room until the elevator doors were glimmering in a metallic shine before him.

'Are these the Gates to Lucifer's chambers?' Asmodeus ran a pale hand over the smooth silver of the doors, and Crowley smiled at that, almost fondly, pressing the button.

'Yeah, you'll see. It's almost magic, this', the elevator gave a short ring, and the doors cracked open, dropping a ribbon of faint golden light over the floor, 'check this out. Come on, step in, s'not gonna eat you.'

'Eat me?' Asmodeus said, his step light on the ground, full of care and soft caution, 'So, this creature, it feasts on human flesh? Does it have to devour you to let you into Lucifer's chambers?'

'It's a bloody elevator, not a Hellhound', huffed Crowley, drawing a relieved breath as the shiny doors slid shut, cutting off the rumbling of the club, 'relax, you're safe. For now, anyway ⸺ hopefully, Maze isn't up there.'

As a soft silence rolled over them, cracked over only by the shivering sounds of music bubbling underneath, the ait grew to fill with a chill. Like soft sea waves, the crammed heat of the club came to pass, and Crowley's pale, long fingers dug through his hair.

'D'you think she'll recognise us?' watching himself in the mirror, he threw a strand gone astray over, and tried setting it smoothly down. In the low light of the elevator, sharp spills of light trickling down from the sizzling lamp, it grew filled with a scarlet flush; a rosy burgundy.

'Not if you fiddle with your hair like that', said Asmodeus absently, gracing the clear skin of his cheekbone with a light touch.

'Good', hummed Crowley.

'I look…' Asmodeus started, his light tone giving way to awe, 'beautiful.'

'Yeah, yeah,  _ angelic _ almost', said Crowley with an air of mocking, 'you she's  _ definitely _ not gonna recognise, honey, I barely do.'

'Fair enough', said Asmodeus, straightening the soft, powdery lapels of his jacket; it's color a deep plum purple; underneath, there was a waistcoat of a gentle grey, and the flash of pale lilac against his neck was too tight for his taste, 'how do they wear this? So many bloody layers! How do  _ you _ wear this?'

He shot Crowley's smooth black suit a look. 

'I know, right?' the stark white of his shirt was blinding against his jacket, 'try taking them off someone in a heated rush ⸺ absolutely horrid, especially  _ tartan _ ⸺ oh, can you bloody believe what I suffer every time I undress hi⸺'

His tone broke, fading abruptly. He shot Asmodeus a glance, clearing his throat; the demon seemed to be too absorbed in sliding his fingers over his closed eye.

' _ Anyway _ , you'll get used to it soon', he said, and the elevator gave a crisp high ring.

'Finally', huffed Crowley, carefully stealing between the doors and into the penthouse.

It was just as he remembered ⸺ the vast, glimmering window full to the brim of golden lights ran over the wall, but the doors to the balcony were sealed shut; a matte silver chain was wrapped around the door handles.

'Huh, a change', said Crowley, in a low tone, 'what happened here?'

'I'd call it a  _ miracle _ ', said Asmodeus vaguel, in faint awe casting a glance over the glowing whisky bottles, rising row after row to the very ceiling.

'Yeah, no, I wouldn't; anyway, never mind that', he snapped his fingers, and the lights came to abruptly flash a high light, 'sence anything?'

'What?' Asmodeus was brought back into reality with that, and turned to face him; he closed his eyes, fingertips lightly grazing his temples, 'No, no, nothing.'

'Any _ one _ ?'

'Neither.'

'Shit', swore Crowley, whipping his head round to look over the room once more, 'shit, shit.'

'Do relax', offered Asmodeus, a mischievous glint stealing into his eyes as he reached for a gold-topped whisky bottle, 'I do fancy a try of this tempting⸺'

The elevator gasped out a metallic ring. Crowley swore, loudly now.

'LAPD, arms above your head!' from behind the doors, first a silver tip of a gun, a lean woman, and then two men of a tight built emerged one after the other.

'Shit, uh⸺' Crowley was a bare inch away from a crisp fingersnap, but a thought graced his mind. If Aziraphale was indeed in Los Angeles, he would not put it past him to go straight to the  _ humans _ for help.

'We surrender!' he called out loudly, and his hands flew above his head in a split of a second. He saw Asmodeus give him a confused look, before doing the same.

'Better be', the man with short-cropped hair and a bitter expression said in a tone of deep disgust;  _ too deep _ , it occurred to Crowley,  _ almost like it's personal. Oh, perhaps, it simply is? _

Asmodeus twitched when his hands were twisted behind his back, but, seeing Crowley comply, he grit his teeth and stayed silent.

'Right, bring them in', the lean woman said, watching Crowley's face as he was lead by with a near disappointed expression. 

'Don't be too disappointed, Chlo', the man offered, with a tone of sympathy; Crowley could hear his soft, comforting smile in his voice.

'Yeah… thanks, Dan', said the woman, 'i'm just, y'know… missing him.'

_ Oh,  _ **_really_ ** _ personal, then, _ Crowley thought, and tried to conceal a smile that graced his lips in a very convincing sneeze.

'Don't worry, Chlo', said the man, 'wherever he's moved, we'll find a contact on him eventually. I know I will ⸺ I'd like a word.'

'Yeah; thank you, Dan', said the woman, in a manner of sad finality. Watching her face closely from over his shoulder, Crowley felt a soft string of  _ goodness _ falling through her; a sense of stark light to her. A ghosting prickling graced the outskirts of his mind, tricking just barely beyond the reach of his fingers.

_ Strange, _ he thought, and the sensation faltered as he was lead away,  _ very strange indeed. _


	7. ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ ʙɪᴛᴇs ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴜsᴛ

CROWLEY thought the interrogation room cold, and dull, and much too clean. The grey matte floor pooled under him, and a table rose at the middle ⸺ a thin, sleek recorder was glittering in the low glow of single the fizzing lightbulb; black.

Asmodeus had been led away, perhaps into another room like his own ⸺ perhaps, into a temporary cell. Crowley's thoughts wandered round, and he smiled every time one thought graced his mind; he pitied the lads who would have to interrogate Asmodeus.

A half-hour past, the narrow matte door cracked open, spilling a bright golden light into the room ⸺ the mirror stretching over one of the walls glimmered with a soft blaze.  _ Presumably, someone's watching from the other side _ , Crowley reasoned; he didn't keep at it long.

First her time-worn shoes, and then all, the same lean, faded-looking woman stepped into the dim light; the same man was with her. Behind them, rows of police desks rolling away flashed, then disappeared with the click of the door.

'Detective Decker', said the woman curtly, in her sad voice; she held the same air of divinity, that made Crowley's skin prickle with a manner of burning needles; thin and crisp.

'Anthony J. Crowley', he said, rubbing the sensation out of his knuckles. The man seemed to be watching his face closely, disgust thick and lively in his gaze; he did not introduce himself.

'You are charged with identity fraud', with a soft shuffle, Detective Decker produced a thin pile of papers wrapped in a glossy evidence file, 'Tell me, why'd you impersonate Mr. Morningstar in his club, LUX, last night?'

'Searching for a friend', Crowley's smile flashed briefly, then faded; desperately, he added, 'maybe you can help me, Detective?'

A question stole into her look like slithering flames into a long wooden split; she shared the look with the other man, who clicked his tongue distastefully, and nodded.

'Was it this man?' from another glossy file, she pulled a square slip of paper; Lucifer smiled at him sharply from the yellowed photo with a finely laminated corner.

'No,  _ of course _ not; that's the one I'm accused of impersonating', said Crowley, smiling mirthlessly back at Lucifer; then, he supplied, 'I liked the police more in the seventies ⸺ seemed smarter.'

'Alright', muttered Detective Decker in a manner of wonder, and the photo was back in the file, 'how old are you exactly, Mr. Crowley?'

'Just about…' he faltered, lazily flipping and tossing the numbers in his mind, 'forty?⸺ no, hang on, fifty years old.'

'Sound unsure', said the woman, casting a suspicious glance his way, and a searching one to the man next to her. He frowned.

'I'm sure', Crowley said, 'I'm fifty.'

'How'd you know what the police was like in the seventies?' the Detective pressed the matter in the low tones of one untrusting, 'Had a run-in at, what⸺ five, six years, did you?'

'My father used to say', said Crowley, shifting in the hard seat for comfort; he rolled his shoulders in the stiff back suit, and lolled his body back onto the spine of the chair.

'Right', said Detective Decker, letting the matter smitten down and fade ⸺ Crowley could see the sharp ember in her eyes; Crowley could see she did not believe him, 'tell me, then, Anthony ⸺ who were you looking for in Mr. Morningstar's apartment?'

'A friend', hummed Crowley, a considering look chasing over his features, 'not too tall, blonde, most likely wearing an old suit ⸺ and I mean, a  _ very _ old suit. Kinda... angelic-looking; British.'

'His name?' asked the Detective, the sharp chirping of a pen-tip against paper crackling in the still, cold air. 

'Aziraphale', said Crowley, a vague memory flash trickling into his mind, 'might be Mr. Fell.'

'Might be?' said the woman, throwing him a look; she wrote it down with care on a blank of neatly lined paper.

'Goes by other names, sometimes', supplied Crowley, watching the sleek, glossy pen dance in the Detective's pale fingers, 'write down he's got a posh sort of accent, will you? Stands out 'bout him a lot.'

She didn't answer, but after a moment of hesitation carefully wrote down his exact words. Her finger was pale and ivory, sliding over a red bookmark ⸺ a narrow slip of paper, that she stuck to the file. The pen clicked over the grey-topped table; Detective Decker looked up, watching his face.

'Do you know that identity fraud is a punishable offense?' she asked, and Crowley felt a tired colour streak her face, and fall to her voice. He looked in her sad eyes, and clicked his tongue thoughtfully.

'I do', he said, 'I will fully and gladly co-operate, if you find my friend.'

'You confess to the crime?' she said, her tone holding a heaviness to it; a dusty, tired manner of weight ⸺ one that made her face fade, and put a handful of years into her eyes.

'No', said Crowley softly, with a deep note of longing causing his tone to sag, 'but I will, if you just find him.'

'Why so desperate? What's your relation to Mr. Fell?' asked the Detective in her soft manner.

'Close friend', a fondness of light trepidation came to colour his tone, and his eyes to glaze with a memory.

'Worth breaking the law for?' 

_ You have no idea,  _ Crowley thought in light amusement.

'Quite; and more', he smiled; a memory bloomed flush, and fresh, and crisp rosy red in his face.

'Why so desperate to find him?'

'Of no matter to you, is it?' now, his tone held a deepness to it, despite the light manner he spoke in.

'Contrary', she said, 'What if you're looking to kill him? We're obligated to check. Do speak.'

'He's disappeared', Crowley said, a tone of genuine worry seeping through lowly, 'and I am something of desperate, at this point. It was the only other place he could be.'

'Why, what is his relation to Mr. Morningstar?' a rise of hope blazed over her expression, a mild promise in her eye.

'None whatsoever,  _ thank _ Satan⸺ uh, thank the Almighty, that is', Crowley remembered humans tended not to thank Satan much; he skipped over the topic gently as best as he could.

'Then… why did you expect to find him at Lucifer's place?'

A saucy spark stole into Crowley's eyes, a bare of a smile gracing his lips ⸺ in the gunfire of the dialogue, the Detective had fallen into the error of addressing Lucifer not as  _ Mr. Morningstar _ , but as his first name was. Such was the realization that streaked her thought, too ⸺ as he saw her linger, and her cheeks flush over.

'No answer; find him, and I'll speak', Crowley, who had leaned closer over the matte grey of the table, now fell back into the embrace of the chair's hard spine.

The woman, still a smitten blush dusting her cheeks, looked to face the man next to her ⸺ he had been silent, watching with a stark glint in his eyes over his hand; fingertips on his lip lightly, as he thought.

'Dan?' she offered, with an air of finality; the files slid gently over the table-top, to glimmer before him.

'We're wasting time, Chloe', he muttered, in an irritated manner, 'He doesn't know where Lucifer is; he bloody well doesn't.'

'He bloody well does', Crowley supplied calmly, tapping his finger crisply on the table to grasp attention.

'What?' it slipped out in a low hiss, as the woman snapped to face him, one emotion chasing another over her face ⸺ anger, and surprise, and hope, and disbelief; all in a burning split of a second.

'How 'bout you get me Mr. Fell, and I tell you?' smiled Crowley, eyes narrowing behind the dark, glimmering veil of the glasses. 

'You're lying', said the woman in a faded manner, with a shrill sadness and all the seeping distaste that her tone had, 'he's not somewhere you'd know.'

'You don't know that', reasoned Crowley, and the man next to Detective Decker ⸺  _ Dan _ , he presumed, was short for  _ Daniel _ ⸺ cast a glance over from the woman to him, and over, and over; unsure.

'I do', the expression that graced her face was a grave manner of a smile, mirthless and distant.

'No, ya don't', Crowley repeated, this time with care, watching the woman's face shift; a guess chased his mind over. He offered an opening, like tossing a glistening ribbon over; 'he's in quite the Hell of a place, lemme tell ya.'

'Oh', the dull glow that stole into the Detective's expression at that caused Crowley to once again lean closer in; the ribbon's neatly cut end was safely in the woman's pale fingers, 'he must be, yes. He's a Devil of a man.'

Crowley smiled, and his understanding was such that at that moment, they had reached a point of  _ knowing _ .

'Dan, would you leave me with him?' Detective Decker asked vaguely, casting him an absent glance; keeping her gaze at Crowley's.

'Sure', Daniel said, giving them one last confused look full to the brim of question; then, the door clicked once, and again, and he stepped out. A wave of silence rolled over them, the cold, crisp air of the room falling still.

'Right', muttered Detective Decker, and buried one of the glossy, black buttons on the recorder down. The drawling crunch of the tape came to a halt.

' _ Who _ are you?' asked Detective Decker softly.

'S'not just a mirror, is it?' Crowley eyed the glimmering panel that ran over the wall behind the lean woman, 'S'never just a mirror these days.'

'No, it's not', she said, 'doesn't matter; please tell,  _ who _ are you?'

'An  _ old friend _ of Lucifer's', said Crowley, his smile sharp.

'How old?'

' _ Very _ ', Crowley supplied, putting a crispness in his tone, 'sometimes feels like I've known him since the beginning of time.'

The Detective let a thoughtful humm slip.

'Aha', she said softly, musing on a long, cold thought; Crowley watched her features in the dark glass panes of his shades.

'Well, seeing as you know where he is, how 'bout I get him a message ⸺ just find Mr. Fell', urged Crowley slyly.

'Mr. Fell… your  _ angelic-looking _ friend?' said the Detective, cracking the file open at the vibrant red bookmark.

'Yeah', Crowley nodded with enthusiasm.

Detective Decker sighed heavily, her hand's light tough gracing her temples as she let a small hiss out.

'Isn't there some sort of celestial messenger?' she muttered in a tone of distaste; Crowley scoffed softly.

'Trust me, honey, I wouldn't  _ be _ here', he said, a bare hint of amusement in his hard features, 'idea's good, though.'

'God', said the Detective, notes of sadness and longing ringing in her tone; unconvinced, she repeated, ' _ God _ .'

'Don't think dear Father's listening, but ⸺ well, a human can hope', Crowley said dismissively, his sharp features revealing a glint of softness.

'Father', the Detective's voice was a hiss of low disbelief, 'you're Lucifer's bloody  _ brother!  _ Oh, that explains a  _ lot _ at least, what's it always with you family⸺'

'Alright,  _ alright _ now', Crowley put a higher, more authoritative glint in his tone, waving his hand sharply to make the red glow steal off the Detective's cheeks, 'for my sake, s'always  _ me _ who gets to pick up Luci's shit ⸺ irresponsible bastard...'

'Isn't he', the Detective agreed lightly; then, she snapped back into reality, 'right, then. We will look for your… friend, Mr. Crowley.'

'You better', Crowley offered a toothy grin, one that held a light spark ⸺ and another, passing shade that it held much less often; a shade that made Chloe's heart sag with a sense of danger.

'I'll go see your other friend now', swiping all the pages in a neat pile, she gave him a firm nod; then, she left.

'Good luck, Asmodeus', whispered Crowley to himself, and split the silence with a full-hearted chuckle.

***

_ The memory of the first night they had spent in his cold, lonely flat with scraped-clean matte walls, and floor, and all  _ ⸺  _ the memory was a sagging, crackling swamp. The Apocalypse had just ceased to happen. _

_ They had stepped over the grey floor, twisted shadows pouring onto the floor in the low light that seeped from the fizzling light bulbs; cold, and faltering, and covering the walls in a fine layer. _

_ 'Why's it gotta be my place?' Crowley asked in his distasteful tones; his relation to the flat was such that, in his mind, it had never been a home. On nights that were the loneliest, he thought of a warm bookshop, full of crackling pages, and laminated covers, and pastel dust. _

_ 'I wanted to try something new, my dear;' Aziraphale had said, hanging his powdered beige coat over a small glossy hook sprouting out of the wall. Lovingly, he smoothed the soft fabric down; then, he followed Crowley into the flat. _

_ 'Hate experiments', said Crowley, pulling a sleek chair of thick metal wire from thin air and sagging into it. _

_ 'No, you don't', said Aziraphale in his kind tones, creating a chair of his own  _ ⸺  _ deep scarlet wood clouded in softly-puffed pillows. He sank into it with a tired look. _

_ 'No, alright  _ ⸺ _ really, though, not like this', glass sang silverly on glass, and he offered, 'wine, whisky?' _

_ 'Whatever you fancy', his tone seemed to Crowley to have an absent deep to it; wine trickled into the glasses, one after the other. _

_ 'Here ya go', he passes the glass, and watched Aziraphale's face, 'All good, angel?' _

_ 'Pardon? Oh, yes, yes; quite', he drank some, his eyes deep in a glaze of thought. _

_ 'The wine alright?' Crowley asked carefully. _

_ 'Yes, my dear.' _

_ 'Oh, you don't mind the pepper, then?' Crowley smiled in a wicked manner, watching Aziraphale near drop the glass; a flush glowed in stains over his cheeks. _

_ 'My, my; I do apologise', said Aziraphale, and Crowley snapped crisply, causing the pepper to leave his wine, 'I am… not quite myself lately.' _

_ 'Do tell', Crowley sipped the cold wine, offering helpfully, 'I can help.' _

_ Aziraphale eyed his with a deep manner of doubt in his expression; Crowley pointedly raised his eyebrows. 'Oh, very well', said the angel with a heavy sigh. _

_ 'Right, how shall I put this… the Apocalypse is no more', he started, swirling the wine in the glittering glass with thought, 'our respective Head Offices will leave us alone, thank Agnes Nutter for that  _ ⸺ _ for now, anyway. But… I can't help but wonder… what are we to do now?' _

_ 'I don't get it', said Crowley frankly, putting more wine in his glass. _

_ 'I never quite gave any thought to the 'after' of saving the world', offered Aziraphale, desperately. _

_ 'Right', he stretched the sound, as he didn't quite understand, still; after a moment, he broke off, 'I dunno, angel; I don't get it. Is there something you're… missing? To be happy, what else do you need?' _

_ 'You know, forget I mentioned it', the flush in his cheeks now gave way to a swash of burning stains. _

_ 'Nonono, angel, do speak', Crowley had not meant to scare Aziraphale off; he did feel like he had laid hand on a personal note, and he meant to savour it, 'I promise I'll help, whatever it is.' _

_ 'You can't, not with this', said Aziraphale, with a sadness to his mirthless smile. Taken aback, Crowley faded off. _

_ 'Alright', he said, lolling his head into the embrace of his cold, metal chair, 'won't push.' _

_ Aziraphale, diving in and out of his thought, drew a sharp breath, and set his glass down with a cling; he seemed to have gathered some courage. _

_ 'Crowley', he said, and the demon wondered at his determination, looking into his face, 'listen, I need to tell you something.' _

_ 'Yeah?' said Crowley, hopefully. _

_ 'I think I might like you', Aziraphale gritted out in a breath, and his fingers came to fiddle over the edge if his sleeve. _

_ ' _ **_Like_ ** _ me?' repeated Crowley dully, 'angel, we're friends, 'course you like me.' _

_ 'Nonono', said Aziraphale, his tone now smitten into hesitation, warm, 'I mean… like… like love you.' _

_ 'You, uh _ ⸺  _ what?' Crowley's voice held a hollow to it, as his mouth fell open. _

_ 'Strange feeling I have for you', Aziraphale said, averting his gaze, his cheeks blooming a deeper rosy; for good measure, Crowley pulled his glasses down  _ ⸺ _ the room lightened, yet the faint blush kept in place, 'makes me feel all… warm, and trembling, and not like anything ever…' _

_ Showing, he placed an unsteady hand on his chest  _ ⸺  _ where, Crowley assumed, a human heart would be beating. He blinked the thought off; he ought to have been dreaming. _

_ 'S'what you do, angel', he offered, near desperately, 'you're made of love, s'what you're meant for. Yeah, very well  _ ⸺ _ you say it's "new"; befriending a demon's not been done before.' _

_ He had only then realized how close in he had leaned, how he must have looked  _ ⸺  _ eyes a glittering yellow, no glasses; the  _ **_heat_ ** _. _

_ Crowley sank back into the back of the chair, and said desperately, 'That must be it, angel.  _ **_Must_ ** _ be. All it is, I assure you  _ ⸺  _ you'll be back to normal in no time.' _

_ A heavy silence rolled over them, and Crowley frantically prayed  _ ⸺  _ if, indeed, such a thing was possible  _ ⸺  _ that Aziraphale chose to back out; he prayed they left it at that. _

_ 'You know, I don't think I will be', said Aziraphale quietly, 'I think it'd have happened already if it was ever going to. It's been a dozen years, uh _ ⸺  _ give or take, anyway.' _

_ 'Oh, angel', Crowley let out a heavy sigh, with a manner of deep sadness in his features; his tone was of unusual softness, 'you're just so confused, s'all. Come, have a drink  _ ⸺  _ surely, it'll be gone by morning.' _

_ 'No, Crowley, will you listen to what I'm _ ⸺ _ ' his frustration faltered, and he stopped, eyeing Crowley's expression warily, 'why are you convincing me of it?' _

_ 'Of what?' _

_ 'That it's not… real', he frowned, 'that it's just my imagination; that it will pass. Why are you telling me this?' _

_ 'I'm really not, angel, you're just making more stuff up now', said Crowley with a frank look; Aziraphale had gotten all too good at spotting a glaring lie. _

_ 'No, why  _ **_are_ ** _ you?' he insisted. _

_ 'Look, angel, I know what this _ ⸺  _ the  _ **_thing_ ** _ does to you, what it did to me. You  _ **_really_ ** _ should just… forget it, s'not real anyway.' _

_ Aziraphale's gaze grew to have a pointed edge in it; it grew to have a sharper quality.  _

**_Should be illegal, that look,_ ** _ Crowley thought to himself frustratedly,  _ **_I'll be damned!_ **

_ 'You'll Fall', he offered in a small voice, and Aziraphale's pointed look sagged all in an instant; softening. _

_ 'Crowley, dear _ ⸺' _ the angel started, but Crowley's sharp snap broke the word off. _

_ ' _ **_No_ ** _ , Aziraphale', he said with an air dark and looming, 'for once,  _ **_you_ ** _ listen. Just… listen! I can't have you Fall, angel  _ ⸺  _ oh, and you  _ **_will_ ** _ Fall, with that line of thought. Or if you press whatever you're trying to start here. Or if we act on it. S'not gonna work, this  _ ⸺  _ you're lucky you haven't already Fallen. I won't put you through that, angel, I bloody won't  _ ⸺  _ you  _ **_know_ ** _ I wouldn't!' _

_ He drew a cold, shaky breath; Aziraphale smiled at him softly and warmly. _

_ 'And don't you smile at me', Crowley said, 'then I know you've not been listening. I hate it when you do that.' _

_ 'I'm listening', said Aziraphale, the soft smile still lingering, gracing his lips gently, 'I am, dear, I always do. Now, if you've quite finished, let me speak. Right, now listen  _ ⸺  _ you worry over nothing, dear. If I was going to Fall for this _ ⸺  _ this feeling, Crowley, for loving you _ ⸺ _ I would have done so eleven years ago; when I was fully certain of what was going on. Of what the  _ **_feeling_ ** _ meant.' _

_ 'Angel, please', Crowley tried, desperate, 'doesn't matter what you  _ **_felt_ ** _ , you can't  _ **_act_ ** _ on it; you'll bloody Fall! Think it's a pleasant trip to the park, yeah? That it, angel  _ ⸺  _ do you not fully  _ **_understand_ ** _ what it means? Shall I  _ **_tell_ ** _ you?' _

_ 'Now, that's just unfair  _ ⸺  _ you're not listening to me at all!' Aziraphale said, 'Dear, I'm telling you, I won't Fall. But, as a matter of fact, even if I do… suppose there'll be nothing to fear, then, nothing to restrict us? I have half a mind for trying _ ⸺'

_ ' _ **_What_ ** _?' Crowley hissed lowly, his tone deep with a stinging wound; a twisted terror stealing into his expression, 'Angel, have you gone completely mad?' _

_ 'Right, perhaps that was a tad too far', he offered peacefully, 'but the point stands. I don't suppose it's nothing I cannot survive, if the worst should indeed happen...' _

_ ' _ **_Survive_ ** _?' Crowley said, in a manner of faint disbelief, 'no, angel, that's the  _ **_point._ ** _ Why'd you think we all lived, the demons? Could've killed us, back then  _ ⸺  _ but they didn't, did they  _ ⸺ _ ever wonder why? Let me tell you. It's cause by the time I hit Hell, angel, I bloody well  _ **_wished_ ** _ I was dead. And I couldn't get it, couldn't get what I wanted more than anything, more than ever. Starved for light, starved for whatever the faded memory of love had turned into  _ ⸺  _ I never thought "at least I'm alive", angel,  _ **_not once._ ** _ Because I wished I wasn't; because I knew I had a burning eternity to plough through right ahead of me, right and forever, and I knew I'd go all that time without all that was lost.  _ **_Surviving_ ** _ was a curse, angel, it was  _ **_the_ ** _ curse  _ ⸺ _ it was a thousand fold anything else they could have possibly done, anything they could have managed. Tell me, angel, still wanna Fall now?' _

_ Silence pierced the air, as Crowley drew a deep, steadying breath. The memory was flames and iron and blades all sewn into his very core, through and through time after time  _ ⸺  _ vivid in his mind, vivid on his tongue, and vivid in his skin; burning,  _ **_alive._ **

_ 'I don't  _ **_want_ ** _ to, Crowley', when Axiraphale's voice came, his tone was low, and weak with an impression; but still firm in a manner, as he slowly added, 'but I  _ **_will_ ** _ if need be.' _


	8. ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴛɪᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴ ᴏʟɪᴠᴇ ʜᴇᴅɢᴇ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a plot-light chapter, mostly focusing on character history and the relationship between Aziraphale and Crowley over the centuries; Lucifer WAS also meant to be featured lightly, interacting with Crowley, but then I remembered I had him say they'd never met in the first chapter, so I found another way to have him in here

When Crowley awoke just after the dragging final years of the Fourteenth Century came to pass, he found himself on the brim of a new era; sprouting to bloom, like a fresh rose in full colour.

The Renaissance, they called it.

He remembered leaning over the railing of his narrow terrace, watching the sky streak in pastels of colours flash, and rich, and vivid, and rolling flames crawling up the horizon. 

The place he'd slept, a small house of wood and dull grey stone was planted atop a mossy, old cliff bent and hunched in on itself; trees rolling upwards row after row, like spikes on a dragon's back. The sunsets there smittened from molten golds into the loveliest pinks, the pastel of a fading rose's bent petals stealing into the sky.

In the patio with an olive hedge he found Aziraphale's letters. 

On a table graced over with intricate carvings ⸺ which, Crowley recalled, had not previously been there ⸺ sat a roll of cream parchment. The letters spoke of the excitement in the world, and all that Crowley had missed.

With a soft blaze of amusement, Crowley thought of Aziraphale carefully writing down all the events that came and went, for the sole purpose of providing Crowley with context once he was awake.

He smiled, and the next day went about seeking the angel out.

'Hello, Aziraphale', his expression shifted as soon as he caught the demon's voice.

'Crowley!' he smiled, 'Dear, you're finally awake.'

'Yeah, and all caught up with the times ⸺ thanks for that', they were in a spacious patio, of Aziraphale's house now; Crowley much preferred his own ⸺ such was his distaste for glittering white stone that shone goldenly in the Italian sun.

'I thought you might need to', Aziraphale said in his kind tone, selecting a flagon wrapped in cold leathers and pouring them some, 'I think you'll love this one. Oh, but don't get drunk ⸺ it's an art of a manner now.'

'Sure', said Crowley, watching Aziraphale over the thin metal rim of the cup, 'artful drinking I can do. So, fifteen-ten?'

'Indeed', the angel nodded, savouring the wine, 'the Renaissance, you must've read.'

'Aha', the wine burned all too sweet for his taste; yet such was Aziraphale's choice, and he drank in silence, 'reviving what, exactly?'

'Oh, everything, really', the angel made a broad gesture with his hand, 'the art, the architecture ⸺ everything.'

'See you got a new house', said Crowley, glad for his glasses over the pale golden shimmer of the white stone, 'S'all white and shiny. I don't like it.'

'Oh, you never do', Aziraphale sighed, 'your patio is quite lovely, actually.'

'Why, thank you', Crowley smiled, 'been visiting a lot, have you?'

'A few times', said the angel, a light flush stealing over his cheeks, to Crowley's mild surprise and amusement, 'someone had to bring you the letters.'

'The decorations on my table?' Crowley asked.

'Oh, but it looked so plain', in a kind manner Aziraphale pointed out, 'I changed it up a little.'

'It looks much better your way', Crowley smiled gently ⸺ in his belief, the angel could do no wrong; such was his his belief not only for Aziraphale being an angel, but also for Aziraphale being Aziraphale.

'Yes, it's rather more lovely now', Aziraphale's cheeks stole over with a soft, rosy flush.

'I'd never thought how much had happened', said Crowley, lightly, and in his eyes Aziraphale saw a cold interest, 'there's a- a man, I heard, with a most interesting name ⸺ Raphael Santi, I think? Happen to know him?'

'Yes, actually', Aziraphale eyed him over the glowing ring of the cup's edge, 'why?'

'Introduce me', Crowley said, letting the angel's question slide aside; then, thought stole into his features, and he repeated, 'interesting name, indeed.'

'If you say so', Aziraphale offered, and smiled to himself; in flashes, and streaks and thick swashes, glowing flame lay like paint on Crowley's figure, as he leaned back and watched the sunset melt; his mind wondered elsewhere, among pearly clouds, and burning questions, and dawning Grace.

#

Raphael held a talent.

Many an artist had come and went in Crowley's eyes, yet none that had captured his eye so, none that had managed to make him admire their work to an extent this great.

'Oh my Satan', he muttered, his manner impressed, 'the School of Athens, you say?'

'Indeed', Raphael said, in his voice that was both gruff and chanting, like a lowly screeching harp, 'what are your thoughts of it?'

'Looks- well, looks alright', Crowley felt rather than saw Aziraphale's expression sour down; and smiled, sweetly almost, 'isn't it, Aziraphale?'

'Pay him no mind, my dear Raphael', the angel said to the man kindly; a thin, trembling straw cracked in Crowley at the sound of the name being uttered with such softess, 'I, personally, think it looks rather lovely.'

The gentle sound of Aziraphale talking of what he liked in detail escaped from Crowley completely; he had caught a familiar flash on the cold stone ⸺ a sharp smile.

'Uh, so sorry to interrupt', he said, 'Raphael, may I inquire… who's that?'

'Oh, a dear friend of mine', he said, eyeing the clear, cold beauty of the face on the fresco, 'he is called Lucifer, so bizarrely. Think he's the devil, can you imagine?⸺ he's most delightful company.'

'I'm sure he is', Crowley whispered, watching the man in the fresco; a ghost come alive on the hard stone, 'bloody hell, Samael, what've you been up to?'

They leave Raphael to his art; over a vast stone floor, boxed in by swashes of walnut oils that dizzy Crowley with their smell, by minute round palettes of rich pigments and a small, intricate box of metallic powdered gold.

You have a beautiful name, Crowley let out when they were leaving, and Raphael's expression was of one confused and pleased all at once. Aziraphale's eyes held a question, but he never mentioned it, for which Crowley was grateful beyond words.

The rest of the century they spend meeting frequently in Crowley's patio with an olive hedge, and it became apparent just how much Aziraphale had missed him.

Crowley thought the Renaissance a beautiful time; the way Aziraphale looked at him was an art in of itself.

Then, Lucifer appeared.

#

Lucifer had not seen him, Crowley now knew.

Surprising we never met, he had said, and the demon agreed; he had no business in knowing that Crowley had just freed Aziraphale from the Bastille.

His life was easier, then, and his fear of Lucifer still a fresh tingle lurking in his mind, he hastily dove under a rack of rags, and barrels, and what looked like nets for fishing. 

He thought it bizarre that no one had noticed Lucifer's absence down in Hell during his brief trips ⸺ then, he reckoned he had someone pose in his stead; then, he wondered whether his brother had even bothered.

Crowley later found out that he had not, in fact, bothered; and was not at all surprised.

He fled France with Aziraphale that same evening, and, for good measure, stirred clear of it for another decade; he kept the angel away, too.

#

Aziraphale had a growing fondness in his eyes, as he studied Crowley's face; smitten from anger to horror to anger once more.

'Dear, are you quite sure you're alright?' he asked, eyes trailing the demon as he paced the room.

'No', Crowley gritted out, eyeing the angel's keen smiled that grew wider with every step he took; he said in a low voice, 'angel, wings.'

'Oh, for the love of⸺', he broke off, cast a glance Crowley's way, and let his wings spill free ⸺ for, what he reckoned, had been the tenth time of the evening. Crowley bristled at the taste of holy Grace that crackled in the air, his snake tongue flashing in the low silver glow.

'See?' Aziraphale said, his vast, ivory wings floating to stretch round him, he looked along and over the cold feathers, that glimmered like molten silver, at Crowley, 'all white, and all Holy. Can we go back to bed now, dear?'

'To bed?' Crowley hissed, 'angel, we're not doing it again, not ever. I have no idea what I was bloody thinking, agreeing to your stupid⸺'

'Crowley, dear, it's all Love with you', said Aziraphale with patience, in his most steady tone, 'I will not Fall when it's out of Love.'

'S'lussst', Crowley said, weakly now, sinking into a sagged, soft chair that looked to be a century old; the bookshop was warm, and dim pastel light seeped like honey down the narrow windows, 'pure, un-angelic lussst, Aziraphale, it's gonna get you to Fall if we ever, ever do it again.'

Aziraphale sighed, noting Crowley was starting to slip up and occasionally let out a low, wounded hiss. Tired, he smiled at Crowley still, with a smile that held a soft fondness.

'Like I said, dear', his touch, when it came, graced Crowley's hand lightly, a fluffy feather against his pale skin, 'if I was going to Fall, I would already have. Love will never be a cause for Fall.'

'Sssure, yeah, but- sssmall thing- fucking might be', Crowley said, throwing his fingers up into the air and away from Aziraphale's touch; a scared manner flickered over his features, 'best if we don't⸺'

'Crowley', Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully, eyeing him with a dangerous glint in his eyes; a brief brush of cold air, and Crowley found himself in a deep kiss, 'shut up.' 

'Angel⸺'

#

'Angel', he had said, in a tone of deep softness; like newly-spread petals of a fresh, young rose. 

'Maybe say that once more', said Aziraphale, red embers of a blush stealing over his cheeks, 'just once?'

'Alright, angel', said Crowley, sparing him a glance; tasting the word, 'angel, I like it ⸺ maybe I'll just call you angel, only.'

'Don't say it always', asked Aziraphale, with an air of light trepidation, 'just sometime; call me 'angel'.'

'Sure', Crowley smiled, 'angel.'


	9. ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪᴠɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇᴅʏ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might be worth noting for ppl who've not reread the previous chapters that I've changed Raphael's rank from Throne, which is what I originally called him, to Archangel.  
> This is because I found the tumblr post where Gaiman explaines that there are the archangels, as in the rank just below Principalities, and there are Archangels, which is the highest rank of all.  
> This both cleared up why Gabriel is Aziraphale's boss in the show, and what rank Raphael should be in this fanfic.

HELL BORE NO RESEMBLANCE of Earth.

Like a needle Lucifer's peak sank into the deep black sky, and from there, he watched as it stilled; time, and time, and time again.

His memory often lingered in the years long gone ⸺ when fire still burned his skin, when poison coursed his veins; when the Fall was a fresh wound.

It had cracked up a void between him and Raphael ⸺ a sudden burning of a manner took hold of his brother all too soon, and the ground that stretched over between them split with a low roar, the stones and earthy lumps wailing and whimpering as they disappeared in the crevasse.

For three thousand years they'd kept silent.

Then, faint rumor had reached Lucifer ⸺ a demon they called Crowley got himself locked in a Cell.

' _ Bloody hell', _ Lucifer had said, and he was off in a split of a second.

The Cell was an ordinary one, onyx stone shining dully in the flashing blazes of Hellfire, the door of matte iron crossed over twice by heavy, gelid chains. He had graced them with a touch, near gently, and in a gust his fondness was gone ⸺ a vivid, rich burn ran over his fingertips; a trickling crackle settled in his bones.

He had spared just opening the door a though, but left it there ⸺ first, he leaned close to the shining frame of a window through which a sizzling blue light spilled, careful to keep clear of the chains. Inside, in the small glass, he saw his brother.

A look of deep, twisted horror sagged Raphael's features. Whatever the horror was, he could not tell, but is seemed to steer deep into his brother's thoughts ⸺ golden eyes were glazed over, and his hands had paled, and trembled lightly.

'What've we got here', Lucifer muttered to himself, shifting to the side to get a better view of the room.

Raphael stood, like a lonely tower, over a pale grey floor that stretched away, far as his eyes could see ⸺ it held a soft glow to it. Above him, like a glimmering amphitheatre of silver, and glass, and stone made of light cast a shape, a sky of mirrors hung, afloat.

Like scales of a serpent's back, they leaned tightly together, and faint light fell in ribbons and scrapes and stains from every shimmering surface.

The mirrors were empty.

They were empty, yet Raphael's gaze, when it did emerge from underneath the fog over his eyes, darted frantically from one to another, to another, to another, and suddenly unease took hold of Lucifer.

He tugged at the chains paying no mind to the flash of burning, and they split apart and fell rattling to hang on both sides of the door. Lucifer pushed on the handle, and the heavy door slipped open with low wail.

'Raphael', he called, and the demon's head whipped round to face the sound. Lucifer knew he had uttered the words, yet he seemed to have only half heard them ⸺ such was the dead, glaring silence of the room, that the sound both  _ was _ and  _ wasn't _ , swallowed up by the depth of the room's hold, 'get the Hell out of there.'

So he did.

#

'What the  _ fuck _ was that?' Lucifer asked in a blunt manner.

'I got stuck', Raphael said, in the low tones of one unwilling to touch the subject. He was sitting on the ground amidst large lumps of ash, soot splitting his face in smudges; leaning against the onyx stone of the cell.

' _ How _ in Hell do you get stuck in a Cell, is what I'm asking', Lucifer bristled. He was standing, and ash seemed to grace its way round him like a burned image of snow, not one bit touching him.

'I didn't bloody mean to', Raphael said, wiping flakes of ash from his auburn hair, where it had began to form a twisted manner of a crown, 'I just… I saw an empty cell, and I got curious, s'all.'

' _ Bloody hell', _ Lucifer said, 'bloody fucking hell, brother, what are you ⸺ retarded?'

'Didn't know it would slam shut after me!' said Raphael, stealing a sharp glance his way and pointedly ignoring the insult.

'How-', at a loss, unusually, Lucifer faltered, 'how d'you spend three bloody thousand years in Hell and  _ not _ know that?'

Raphael eyed him with the strangest of looks, but kept his silence. A still cold rolled over them, and a sudden tiredness befell Lucifer's features.

'Why were they mirrors?' he asked softly.

'Huh?'

'Why were they empty?' he added, and his eyes lingered at Raphael's features as he watched his face stir ⸺ he saw thought rise in the deep of his look, and he saw it fade.

'Not empty', he spoke at last, his voice a slight hoarse, 'they're never empty.'

'I saw nothing in them', Lucifer reasoned, 'what did you?'

'Me', he let out faintly, then a shadow flickered over his features as he corrected himself, 'the Archangel Raphael, that is.'

'And?' 

'And me', he said, 'after…  _ after _ .'

'And?' Lucifer repeated still, as he could not shake away the lingering feeling on his tongue; bitter.

'And me', after a moment of thought, Raphael added, 'me, like I am now.'

' _ And _ ?' a tremor ran round his lips, as if in amusement; there was none; his look was cold, and sharp, and an ember of red gleamed in it.

'And  _ me',  _ he lost a ragged breath; then, he snatched himself back into reality with a flash of his eyes, 'right, Luci,  _ stop this _ . Doesn't matter what I saw, s'all just a mind trick, yeah?'

Lucifer kept his silence ⸺ he had half a mind to agree, but the words scraped his throat the sour way a lie would. Lucifer didn't lie, nor did he want to speak the truth.

They'd parted then in a cold manner, eyeing each other cautiously.  _ Damn my family to Hell, _ Lucifer had thought, and frowned at the irony; his brother had his unique way of leaving a bitterness in his mouth.

And then he heard Raphael whisper 'thank you', and the world shifted in its place.

#

'MY DEAR, IS THIS strictly necessary?' Aziraphale looked along his hands, his wings shifting to obscure and show his distasteful expression.

'Alternatively, you can parade through Hell with your white wings sticking out and a blinding halo', Lucifer offered in the offended tones of one deeply unappreciated, 'It rather suits you, actually ⸺ you're not all…'

He made a smooth gesture with his free hand; his other one held a glass full of whisky.

They were back in his tower, the pale illusion of the flat in Los Angeles shifting and crumbling round them; frustrated, Lucifer had pushed his way in, swearing loudly, and collapsed into his chair, and slammed his polished to gloss leather shoes on the black piano.

'Could you not have at least made me more...', Aziraphale mimicked Lucifer's vague gesture, running his pale fingers through his hair ⸺ to his great displeasure, it had sheathed it's golden glint to streak black and silver.

'No one appreciates an artist these days', Lucifer complained, the low of his voice giving way to amusement in his eyes. He watched an onyx wing slide over Aziraphale's face as he graced the glimmering feathers with an uncertain touch.

'But really, dear, did you have to give me  _ horns?'  _ the angel slid his hand over the rough texture of the two ragged, twisted horns that dug into his hair.

'Why, angel, every good demon ought to be horny', said Lucifer with a sharp smile.

'I did  _ not _ hear that', Aziraphale muttered, glowing red stealing into his cheeks.

'Right, then, now that this bore is taken care of', Lucifer rose to his feet, and glass cracked atop the polished wood of the piano as he set his drink down, 'we can get to the important bits.'

' _ You _ ?' Aziraphale sneered, and for a split second the Devil's cold expression briefly gave way to awe.

'Holy Father, Aziraphale,  _ cheeky _ ', he gave him a look split equally between a most deep interest and a lightest mocking, 'I see why Crowley likes you so much.'

'Sorry, got carried away a bit', the angel admitted in his lower tones, and Lucifer spared him a careful glance ⸺ his voice seemed to have sunk, and darken into a deep, melodic one, 'though, a demon would be.'

'An actual demon would've been terrified to make a sound', Lucifer said, 'with the rare exception of my brother ⸺ though, I suppose an idiot error is always inevitable.'

'I keep these clothes, then?' Aziraphale reached to smoothen down his bowtie, crossing the floor over to a narrow mirror.

'Yes', said Lucifer, putting some lightly treading distateste in his tone, 'although, frankly, no sane demon would ever put that on.'

'Have you  _ seen _ Beelzebub?' Aziraphale asked, watching Lucifer's face in the glimmering surface of the mirror, 'If half the demons take after their Prince, Hell is a fashion disaster.'

'Anyone ever told you you'd make a splendid demon?' Lucifer asked, after a moment of cold silence that was broken off only by the wailing and rumbling of Hell rolling from beyond the tower.

'Oh, don't', the angel clicked his tongue; then, he turned to face him and dropped into a mock bow, 'what are we to do now, My Lord?'

'It's  _ "Your Dark Highness, Lord of Hell"', _ Lucifer supplied, watching with enormous amusement as Aziraphale's features twisted at that, falling for a blink back into his usual habit.

'Surely, they don't…' he faltered, and Lucifer let out a harsh, cold laugh, 'they  _ do?' _

'Thank me for changing it', the Devil said, smiling, 'used to be  _ "Your Dark Highness, The Fallen Star of the Morning, Lucifer the Damned, Satan, Lord of Hell" _ .'

'Oh dear', Aziraphale searched his features with confusion, still grasping at whether he was being lied to; then, he let out a low laugh, 'oh dear.'

'Precisely', said Lucifer, 'now, we've wasted enough time on you; let's go clear my name.'

'Oh, just a moment', Aziraphale said, as a sudden though took hold of him; turning to face his crisp reflection in the mirror, he supplied, 'suppose I should switch up the palette.'

'The what?'

'The palette, dear. Ever seen a demon wear beige?' Aziraphale's fingers tugged thoughtfully at one wing of his bowtie.

'For Father's sake', Lucifer muttered, raising the glass again; then, he clicked his tongue, 'try the good old black-and-red?'

'And look like Crowley?' Aziraphale said, snapping his fingers ⸺ and then immediately snapping back to beige with nary a thought, 'dear, no.'

'Oh, for⸺', he cut himself off, 'what about a deep green?'

'Don't even have to look, I  _ know _ it I'll look like a swamp thing on a good day', the angel said, his tone still not sounding unkind.

'Oh,  _ alright _ then', Lucifer said, his tone taking an offended quality. Aziraphale stole him a glance, but made no comment on it ⸺ the air stilled as he tried another or two colours.

'You care about Crowley, you know', he said suddenly, in a matter-of-fact manner.

Lucifer froze with his lips on the ridge of the cup. Then, he pulled back, leaving a warm impression on the cold glass.

'Pardon?' he said.

'You do, my dear', Aziraphale said in his casual tones, 'I sense it.'

'Don't be preposterous', Lucifer scoffed, 'Raphael's made it clear we're not  _ close _ .'

'Mm, I never said you were', the angel said, 'although, yes, you are.'

'Last thing I need is a lecture from  _ you', _ Lucifer said, eyeing the glossy velvet Aziraphale snapped his suit into, 'we're not going anywhere like  _ that.' _

'Not lecturing, but it is  _ true',  _ Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully, 'too shiny?'

'It is most definitely not true', Lucifer said, 'too shitty, angel; and you dare speak to me of style?'

'I can sense love, dear, you can't fool me', Aziraphale said, 'how do you think plain black will go?'

'Don't know what you're sensing, but it ain't love; your detector's broken', he set the glass down to refill, 'black will do.'

'Not a detector, it's more a- a divine thing', Aziraphale gestured vaguely, 'oh, you're right, black looks lovely!'

'Finally!' Lucifer made a frustrated look, 'pick up your divine pace and let's go already; what a waste of time.'

'Indeed', Aziraphale reckoned he would look guilty, but the demon act had turned the guilt in his mind into a smile on his lips, 'where to?'

'Hell', the Devil offered glumly, stepping through the elevator door.

At that, Aziraphale smiled, and with a strange feeling Lucifer though he had not ever seen a smile so blinding, nor a manner so kind.

#

ASMODEUS WATCHED WARILY ON as a lean, faded-looking woman stepped into the grey, dull room he had spent the past two hours studying intently. He recalled her paled face, and though in wonder that she now had a glint to her eyes; a glint that had not been there prior.

'Hello, lovely human lady', he said in his polite tone; the woman cast him a strange glance, but sank in the grey metal chair keeping her silence.

'What's your name?' she asked, rigidly; Asmodeus eyed her face and fell into the impression her expression was one of caution; he was accustomed to thinking humans careless. He wondered just how much had changed since the fourteenth century.

'I am called Asmodeus, the Keeper of the Gates of Hell', he announced with grandiosity.

'Aha', the woman said simply, flipping open some clean white papers, 'happen to know one Anthony J. Crowley?'

'I do not', he replied, putting some more officiality into his tone; the woman graced him with a suspicious glance. For good measure, he added, in his best reassuring voice, 'on my honour.'

'Aha', the woman repeated dully, 'tell me, then, you are, uh- how old?'

'Human years or eons?' Asmodeus specified, which he considered very thoughtful, on his part.

'Years, please.'

'Suppose, I would be…' he gave it a thought, 'perhaps, six-thousand, and another nine-and-ten?'

'Aha', the woman said, again; Asmodeus wondered if she had a manner of sickness.

'Hear, human', he tried, 'lead me to your King, and no harm will befall your kind from me; you have my word.'

'Right', the faded-looking woman hummed, near absently; then, she gave a strangled laugh, before leaning closer in and letting her voice drop to a whisper, 'so, you're, uh-  _ actually _ a demon, are you?'

'I didn't say that', Asmodeus looked uncertain, 'lead me to your King.'

'Sure, but, prove it', she said with a peaceful air. 

'Prove… what?'

'That you're a demon', the woman said, lolling back into the embrace of the metal chair.

'I assure you, human lady, I am of your kind', Asmodeus said.

'Why'd you speak that way?' she asked suddenly, looking him up and down with narrowed eyes.

'What way?'

'Like you're from the fifteenth century.'

'Fourteenth', he corrected absently, and then added hurriedly, 'that is, I speak the tongue of- uh-'

'Yes?' the faded-looking woman urged on, a glint of interest stealing further into her eyes.

Asmodeus kept his silence, flipping the thought over in his mind; then, he shed the grandiose tone, and spoke freely:

'Listen, I don't know what you want me to say here', he admitted softly, 'I seem to be a little, well, behind with the times, really.'

'More like it', the woman said, 'well, I am Chloe Decker, and I might just be able to help you and your  _ friend _ . But to do that, I'm gonna need you to communicate normally.'

'Oh, certainly', Asmodeus said with relief, 'that I can do.'

'Good', Chloe Decker said, eyeing the strange silver mirror that ran along one of the narrow walls, 'now, listen carefully.'

#

'HOW IN HELL DID you manage that, Chloe Decker?' the lean, leather-clad man with auburn locks and dark glasses, whose name Anthony, asked.

'You're a demon, figure it out', Chloe muttered, shutting the door to her car with a dim thud; the man leaned forward behind her, looking into the driver's seat with interest.

'Ooh, bribe someone?' he clicked his tongue; his friend, who insisted he be called Asmodeus, swept his fingers over the matte leather work of the back seats with awe in his eyes.

'What- no! I just, well-', she trailed down into silence, and then cracked it open with the sharp snap of a starting car, 'you know what, it doesn't matter. It's done.'

'Where're we going?' Anthony asked.

'Well, Anthony-'

'Crowley', he corrected hastily, with a faint distaste in his manner, 'Anthony's the human name; Crowley's the actual one.'

'Right', Chloe said softly, 'well, Crowley, I was hoping you'd tell me where we're going.'

He rose his eyes at her with a question seeping through the dark lenses of his glasses; Chloe briefly wondered why he kept them on.

'Well, did Lucifer send you? Do you have a mission? Does he have a- a plan, or, maybe, something he wants me to do, or-' she broke off, eyeing the demon's sharp features.

'He, uh- no, not really', Crowley vaguely offered; then, he supplied, 'we're really just here to find Mr. Fell, Detective.'

'Right, the angel', Chloe nodded in understanding, 'why does Lucifer need  _ him _ , then?'

Crowley cast a glance to Asmodeus, before understanding stole into his features, and they shifted slowly to soften.

'Chloe, Lucifer didn't send me', he said in a manner almost gentle; with care not to sound kind.

'He… didn't?' Chloe echoed, and in the soft, sizzling light of the parking lot seeping through the car's front pane Crowley saw her frown.

'No', he said, 'no, he didn't. We didn't exactly part on- well, friendly terms, really.'

'Then, why  _ are _ you here?' Chloe asked desperately.

'Looking for Mr. Fell', Crowley said.

'But Lucifer, he-', Chloe's voice wavered, and an uncertainty took hold of Crowley ⸺ he wondered whether it was better to be off. The police had no account of Aziraphale, and Lucifer would sooner find him through the Detective than not.

'Listen, Chloe, I think we better be-'

'No!' the detective interrupted sharply, and hastily reached to click a switch and lock the doors, 'no, you're not going anywhere, mister Anthony J. Crowley. You know, I'm sick of Lucifer not- not being here, and you're gonna help me sort it.'

'Oh, m'afraid this isn't a negotiation', Crowley said softly, 'but, out of interest, where do you reckon we'd go?'

'Where we  _ are _ going is to Amenadiel, and he will help us sort this', Chloe said in a desperate tone, her fingers gracing the wheel with a touch shakily. 

_ 'Amenadiel _ is here?' Crowley said with an air of disbelief.

'Yes, and we're going to him,  _ now',  _ Chloe said with a shivering voice, and the car trembled, and grumbled lowly, and started down the parking lot.

Crowley muttered a vague 'aha' her way, and pulled back, lolling himself down the gruff, matte leather work of the back saloon.

'Well, what the hell', he slithered a soft whisper Asmodeus' way, shifting and settling his shoulders comfortably; not bothering with the seatbelt.

'Looks like your  _ favourite _ brother's been frequenting earth with Luci', Asmodeus offered back cheerily, still under the hold of his awe.

'Oh, shut up', Crowley smiled mirthlessly, which immediately soured into a twisted grimace aa he spared meeting Amenadiel a thought, 'bloody hell, but he  _ hates _ me!'

'Nevermind that', Asmodeus seemed blissfully unconcerned with Crowley's "family issues", as he trailed on in a light tone, 'tell me about this new world, will you?'

'What about it?'

'It's all so bizzare, really', he trailed his fingers along the glass, tracing the shards of skyscrapers sinking like blades into the grey midday clouds, 'do they have no King, now?'

'Do they- of  _ course _ they have no King!' Crowley hissed, letting out a strangled, sharp laugh, 'what've you told them?'

'Requested an audience with the King', Asmodeus shrugged, and the casualty of his voice got swallowed up in Crowley's sharp, harsh giggles, 'well, what've I done wrong?'

'Oh, Satan', Crowley sighed to shake the smile off, but it stayed even as he addressed Chloe, 'how long's the ride, Detective?'

'Hour', came her muffled response, as her eyes flickered along the road carefully.

'Oh, Asmodeus', he leaned on his pale fingers curled into a fist, settling comfortably; as the demon turned a glossy magazine he found in the back pocket of the passenger seat in his hands, 'there's so much I've got to tell you.'


	10. ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪᴄᴇ ᴏғ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴀʟᴜᴇ ᴏғ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ

THE NEXT TIME THEY cross, Raphael well and fully bears a new name.

'Crowley,' he hisses at him angrily, with a glint of something in his eyes; something Lucifer cannot quite place.

Crowley, Lucifer notices soon, is either not frequently working in Hell, or is not frequently loud while about it. He thought keeping tails on his brother distasteful, and above all he refused to do so out of spite. Whatever it had been that had drawn them apart, he had not been at fault ⸺ of that Lucifer was certain.

By the look that passed Crowley's face, he had not at all expected to find himself setting foot into Lucifer's office. There was a haze to his eyes, a desperate, frantic glint, and Lucifer did not find it in himself to refuse.

Crowley was drunk.

His hair was a grasp of copper shreds thrown about in a ragged mess, his cheeks burned with hectic manners of a fire, and his very eyes seemed to hold a dimmed quality to them ⸺ neither of the three had been that way prior, ever.

Other than, perhaps, after the Fall; Lucifer preferred not to think of it.

'Care to explain?' he said coldly, as Crowley lolled himself into a seated position, back leaning against the rough stone wall.

'I do, actually,' the demon muttered on the verge of his hearing, and dove down to press his lips against the cold glass in his shaking hand.

'What the hell happened?' Lucifer insisted.

'Fucked up!' Crowley cried out suddenly; then, quietly, he added, 'I did, if you must know. Terribly, so terribly.'

'What happened?' he repeated still, in a pressing tone.

Crowley made a vague gesture with his free hand; he opened his mouth with the intention to speak, but no words came ⸺ instead, he drew a rasping breath, and shut it.

'Someone's dead,' he whispered, a pained grimace rising in his features; then, he added hastily, 'well, not  _ dead _ dead, but, uh- hurt.'

'Father's sake, do you have to be vague?' Lucifer clicked his tongue in annoyance.

'No, but I want to,' Crowley emptied another glass.

'If you're not gonna talk, brother, get the hell out of here,' Lucifer bristled, gesturing dismissively. He supposed it had been mad of him to expect Crowley to open up about so much as a spark of his life.

_ So much for family, _ he thought bitterly.

Crowley frowned at the empty glass, turning it in his fingers; he seemed to give some heavy thought a serious amount of consideration. Then, he spoke, his voice hoarse:

'S'the plague. The  _ Black Death _ , or- or whatever… pretentious bastards,' he looked hard at Lucifer for a moment, and then his eyes lost focus again, 'Messy. Never thought it'd be so messy, y'know, so, so-  _ terrible. _ S'terrible, brother. One of ours?'

'No, actually,' Lucifer said, 'not theirs, either. Just  _ human, _ I suppose.'

'Still killed  _ him,  _ didn't it?' Crowley let out a mirthless laugh, and refilled his glass.

'Right, right, that's enough,' Lucifer took hold on the cold glass and guided it out of Crowley's shaky, numbing fingers.

'I hate you,' Crowley said vaguely, in a manner almost matter-of-factly.

'I'm afraid there might be a line,' sneered Lucifer, bitter.

'You bloody left me,' Crowley muttered on drunkedly, but something in his tone acutely took hold of Lucifer's attention, 'alone. You let them torture me, brother, you let them-'

'What are you  _ talking _ about? I bloody saved you from the Cell, what else d'you want me to do?'

'The Cell, the- no! You left me alone for the- them, all of them to- to torture, brother. Must've been such a bother, wasn'it, to just get down from your _bloody_ _fucking_ throne and give me a blasted hand?' Crowley's pale fingers trembled against the black rock of the wall as he leaned on it, rising numbly to stand.

'What'd I do? What'd I do?' Lucifer echoed dully, watching impassively as Crowley struggled to his feet.

'I know you're the Devil and all, but, really,  _ brother,'  _ Crowley laughed harshly, 'really.'

'Right, get out,' Lucifer said, 'you're drunk, and you're being ridicu- you're being  _ ridiculous! _ Get out.'

'Oh, fucking gladly,' on unsteady legs, Crowley ploughed his way through the floor over to the narrow crack of the exit, 'yeah, brother, thanks for nothing.'

'Get out,' Lucifer growled, and gave Crowley a hard, sharp look as he disappeared beyond his office.

'Well, what the hell,' he muttered.

#

'DID YOU JUST FUCKING  _ smite _ me!?' Crowley cried out, diving against the ground to disappear behind a plain wood kitchen counter. 

His skin sizzled with sharp pain, and his suit hung in ragged ribbons and strips round his shoulder; beneath it, his skin had darkened, and gone scarlet, and crawled with dim red fire.

'Chloe, what were you  _ thinking?' _ he heard Amenadiel's gruff, low voice crackle with anger; and rubbed the sting of divinity out of his knuckles, where it had settled deeply.

'Now, now, is that any way to greet your brother?' Crowley said, raising his voice, to be heard over Amenadiel's rising tone.

'You are no brother of mine,' the angel hissed spitefully, and so hard was his stare that, despite the counter covering him, Crowley could not so much as move a finger.

'Ouch, brother,' Crowley said, putting as much lightness in his tone as he could manage ⸺ the hold of angelic Grace on his shoulders rolled down, growing a dimmer quality, and he shifted his shoulder uneasily.

'Why are you here?' Amenadiel said coldly, and Crowley had just the burning split of a second to realise that the voice now sounded near.

Perhaps for a moment Crowley lingered, and it took no more ⸺ Amenadiel's fingers were metal gone aflame, hot and burning and bubbling with a pained glow; on his throat ⸺ his shoes scraped the air desperately.

Crowley had no need for air, as humans did, yet a light touch of angelic Grace that coated Amenadiel's hand thickly was a matter entirely different.

'Can't- explain-,' he croaked out hoarsely, and in his dimming vision he caught a glimpse of Chloe Decker's calming hand on his brother's shoulder. When the gulp of air came, it burned his throat still, blissfully gelid.

'Fucking hell,' he said, breathing heavily, 'does Heaven breed inadequacy these days?'

'Why are you here?' Amenadiel repeated, his eyes flashing down at Crowley, who sank down onto the floor, back cold against the kitchen counter.

'Looking for Aziraphale,' Crowley said, 'I thought he might have come to you, dear brother.'

'Aziraphale?' Amenadiel repeated, and Crowley fell under the impression that to him the name was new.

'Principality,' he offered helpfully, watching his brother's face, 'Angel of the Eastern Gate? He's sort of blonde, probably wearing an old suit… in beige.'

'Oh,' Amenadiel said flatly, and Crowley saw no light of recognition steal into his eyes, 'the idiot that gave away the Flaming Sword?'

'You're an idiot,' Crowley bristled sharply.

'What business do you have with him?' Amenadiel gave him a hard, pointed look.

'None of yours,' he gave a sharp smile, that twisted into a pained grimace as a dim red fire chased over his burned shoulder.

'Looking to, what, tempt him, are you? To corrupt him? Have you not had enough Fallen Angels just yet?' at his left hand, Chloe's eyes grew an incredulous expression.

'Sssshut up,' Crowley hissed, falling back into his old habit ⸺ he would have bargained landing a hit or another over Amenadiel's smug face, but bolts of sharp pain ran like slithers down his shoulder, and he let out a pained sound instead.

'Can, uh- someone explain what exactly is supposed to be happening here?' the voice was a timid one, quiet from the opposite side of the room ⸺ there, over a sagged couch, sat a woman.

She was eyeing the lot of them uncertainty, and by the look of her face, Crowley supposed she was not older that forty. The woman, whose name he recalled faintly to be Linda, spoke again:

'Amenadiel, dear, uh- explain?'

'Linda, darling,' his brother's voice had smitten down into a soft murmur in a speed so great Crowley flinched at the change, 'of course. This,' he gave the demon a look of heavy loathing, 'is the most disgraced Fallen Angel, Crawly.'

'Crowley,' he corrected absently.

'Crawly,' Amenadiel insisted, paying him no mind, 'don't worry, Linda, I will deal with him now.'

'Deal with me?' Crowley hissed, managing to pull himself into an unsteady, albeit upright position, 'what exactly do you sssupossse that entailsss, dearessst brother?'

'Why, smite you, and be done with it,' Amenadiel raised his hand, and with a low crackle Grace grew, a keen glow at the tips of his fingers.

'Nonono,' Crowley dove round the counter, falling close to the ground at the opposite side, 'wait, for Heaven's sake, just-  _ wait!' _

'Amenadiel,  _ really _ ,' Chloe reasoned in the even tones of one struggling to grasp at their patience, 'let him speak.'

A cold silence rolled over them, as Amenadiel seemed to linger in a blink of consideration ⸺ then, the sizzling and prickling of a thousand burning needles soothed down, washing out of his skin by the deep breath.

'Thank Satan,' Crowley muttered, snapping his fingers crisply ⸺ the strips and ribbons his jacket had been reduced to intertwined, growing smoothly back into one. With fingers still numbing in the deep of the knuckles, Crowley helped himself up against the kitchen counter.

'Well, speak,' Chloe urged. 

'Bloody hell, woman,  _ alright _ ,' Crowley drew a steadying breath, 'Aziraphale's a… friend; missing. I thought, well, since my dearest brother's in town, he went for help to him. Clearly not.'

'You wouldn't befriend an  _ angel,' _ Amenadiel scoffed with an air of pale loathing.

'If Luci can, so can I,' Crowley smiled at him sharply, 'anyway, angel's not here, so I s'pose I'll be off.'

'You'll be-' Amenadiel broke off abruptly, 'what's that sound?'

'Crowley?' from beyond the room, a melodic voice spilled into the air. In Crowley's expression, one emotion chased another ⸺ fear, and awe, and embarrassment, and finally he let out a low groan of frustration.

' _ Bloody hell,' _ he muttered to himself, and Asmodeus' crisp, golden locks glimmered over the doorway like twisted manner of a halo.

A sudden, shaky silence took hold of the room, as every gaze flicked to the demon. Crowley had though it unwise to parade into the room with the Keeper of the Gates of Hell by his side; it had been decided to lock Asmodeus in car, with a glossy fashion magazine to keep him company.

Locks, however, tended to slide open to a demon's touch.

'Oh, hello,' Asmodeus said in a polite tone, looking round the room with awe sparkling in his eyes turned a smile on his lips; then, he saw Amenadiel, and it faded.

'Crawly,' the angel said, in a manner dangerously calm, 'Crawly, why do I see Asmodeus?'

'Presumably, you might have eyes,' Crowley offered. 

With a deafening crash the air split open with a divine light, and with a sharp gust of wind Amenadiel's wings spilled free. A roar of molten starlight aglow in his eyes, the angel's face was streaked in paints dark, and deep, and all the same pristine.

' _ Why?' _ Amenadiel insisted.

''Cause he's on earth, you  _ moron _ ! Satan's sake!' Crowley hissed in pain, and with a gash of dim red fire a deep cut slid open on his hand; it slid open over where had been his eyes, which he hastily covered a second prior.

Then, he felt a shadow whisper to him.

'Amenadiel,' Crowley heard a soft voice speak, and suddenly a darkness took hold of the room; the twisted, tremoring terror, whatever it was, slithered softly all the way through Crowley's own spine ⸺ despite his demonic nature.  _ Bloody hell, _ he thought.

'Amenadiel,' Asmodeus repeated, and when Crowley drew his eyes upward to see his face, there was none ⸺ in its place, a shimmering darkness sizzled, and wailed, and roared, and his eyes fell immediately sideways; like quicksilver the darkness trickled down onto the floor, flakes of sopping ash seeping through with it.

'Amenadiel,' he said a third time, and only then had Crowley realised that it was not out of choice that his brother kept his silence, 'toy with me not.'

Amenadiel threw him a heavy, burning glance, and in a blink his wings were gone; gone was the agonising rush of Grace that took hold of Crowley, splitting his skin, sizzling deep in his bones. 

The darkness followed.

'Fucking mad's what you are,' Crowley muttered. The humans, to whom he had paid no mind prior, seemed to be caught in a state of trance ⸺ their eyes were glazed over, their lips trembling like their hands; and pale.

'If you say so,' Asmodeus said peacefully; crossing the floor, he helped Crowley steady with a firm hand ⸺ a faint hiss filled the air when he covered the cut with his palm. Then he removed it, and the skin was whole again.

'So, Amenadiel,' Asmodeus said, turning to face the angel, 'why so hostile? Brother, and all.'

'Worst demons seem to flock together,' he gritted.

'We're really not,' Crowley said; then, he seemed to get a sudden thought, 'although, s'pose we're the worst at our job, aren't we? S'pose you're right, then.'

'Oh, speak for yourself,' Asmodeus said, 'I was best at being worst up 'till I met you.'

'Corrupting other demons count as work?'

'Hardly,' Asmodeus sniffed distastefully, ' _ anyway _ , what've you got?'

'Diagnosis,' Crowley smiled and glanced towards Amenadiel, who watched them with a growing wariness in his eyes.

'Really,' Asmodeus said, although not unkindly.

'Right, right,' Crowley said softly, 'got nothing.'

'Oh,' Asmodeus simply said, 'oh, what a useless trip.'

'Encouragement. Nice, very nice,' said Crowley, mocking tones stealing into his voice; Asmodeus watched with a soft look how sadness sagged his eyes, and a desperation grew to his features.

'We'll find him,' he said, 'I said we would, and we will now. Just-  _ think, _ where'd he be?'

'Don't bloody know,' said Crowley desperately, 'don't know.'

'Excuse me, are we interrupting you?' Amenadiel snarled with sharp spite, warily eyeing Asmodeus. He had not expected Crowley to have any close relation to a the Devil's Right Hand Man, nor indeed did he foresee the extent to which Asmodeus' power had grown; nor to which his own had faded.

'We'll be off in a moment,' Crowley said lowly.

'No,' Chloe's voice was shaky, her sternness giving way to a terror the ran deep; still, she spoke, 'no, you won't. Lucifer still- he's…'

'Not coming back, m'afraid,' Crowley offered with a dark air, 'stuck in Hell with all his misery.'

Then, a thought seemed to have occurred to him, blunting over his eyes.

'Did see him up here, though, actually,' he offered with heavy thought, 'several times, three hundred or so years past, perhaps? Oh, don't look at me all hopeful; just summon 'im, or- something.'

'Won't work,' Chloe said sadly, her tone gracing around a sob best as it could, 'won't work, it won't.'

'Hey, alright, alright,' said Amenadiel, a sudden softness taking hold of his words; with a stern hand, he guided Chloe to sit on a grey couch snuggled into a narrow corner, 'alright.'

Crowley produced a pristinely white handkerchief from thin air, and put it softly in her numbing fingers.

'Here,' he said, 'cry all you want, human.'

'Not gonna cry,' said Chloe desperately, with a tone lighter indeed; her grip stern round the soft white fabric, 'no, not gonna.'

The short woman of forty, whose name Crowley recalled again now was Linda, took Chloe's hand in hers soothingly.

'Right,' said Crowley, pulling away and looking at her with softness, 'as you will.'

'Help me get him back,' said Chloe, her low tone grating on Crowley's ear; her faded-looking features sharpening, 'get him back.'

'I can't,' said Crowley, 'I can't. And, if I could, well- Luci's better off down there.'

'But I need him.'

'Well, tough,' said Crowley darkly, 'always fucks off when you need him most.'

'Crowley,' there was a light tone of warning in Asmodeus' voice, and at that the other demon bared his teeth; but kept silent.

'We'll be off,' he repeated after a blink of cold silence, 'now.'

He turned to face the door; a sharp metallic cling split the air, and a shadow flicked past the very tip of his nose; with a deafening crash, a long, glossy dagger was trembling, blade buried to the half in the wooden wall.

'You're going nowhere,' a looming silhouette that graced the door frame said in the voice of Mazikeen, the demon, Hell's greatest torturer, who indeed stepped in a moment later; face deep with a twisted grimace of fury, eyes alight with a burning loathing.

'Oh, fuck,' said Crowley desperately, diving behind the kitchen counter.


	11. ᴘᴏsʜ ғʀᴇɴᴄʜ ʙᴀsᴛᴀʀᴅ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Of course" in French can literally be translated into "well understood";  
> Also, new demon character. Comment thoughts on Astaroth so far♡

_ 'SAMAEL,' God had said, 'YOU ARE MY BRIGHTEST ANGEL, MY DEAREST SON. WHAT HAVE YOU CREATED?' _

_ Samael looked up - he looked into the Light, into the glowing nothing, the endless pristine that stretched and dove and he watched how it glimmered with pale flecks of gold, and silver, and the molten ice of faint clouds. He though the light all too white for his taste, so he cupped his palms and showed them to God. _

_ 'Father,' he had said with a proud spark lurking in his tone, 'Father, look.' _

_ He cracked his palms apart, and in the cold glowing white a dim red fleck of fire was born. In his hands, it licked up, and raged, and faded - Samael whispered to it softly words of gentle guidance; he let it run across his fingers freely, diving and twisting like a snake with scales of burning flame. _

_ God kept a thoughtful silence; Samael thought some, and then he spoke again. _

_ 'Look,' he said again, 'it isn't over.' _

_ The flame on his open palms sagged down, melting. Like rays of heated steel it seeped down through the white sizzle of the clouds; dim burning red, and a raging orange, bubbling heated copper and a sultry, molten gold. _

_ Down below, the molten fire broke over the brim of the Horizon, spilling into the white light - smittening the ivory into raging paints of coral, and blaze, and peach, and carmine. _

_ 'Look, Father,' Samael said a third time, spreading his arms with a soft loving look in his eyes, 'I call this the Morning; the Rising of the Sun.' _

_ 'GOOD,' God had said, 'IT IS GOOD.' _

_ 'Not good,' Samael thought to himself then, watching how the molten fires smittened down into their rosy shades, 'perfection. It's gorgeous, Father. I do wish you would have told me that, instead.' _

_ But God had not told him so, and Samael watched in silence as the first dawn broke. _

_ 'I'll show you, Father,' he though, 'let me show you just how much better I am.' _

_ And with the red light, he thought of an insane affair indeed. _

#

_ 'RAPHAEL,' God had said, 'LOOK AT WHAT SAMAEL HAD CREATED FOR ME. LOOK, SON. HE CALLS IT THE MORNING. LOOK.' _

_ So he looked obediently and he watched the fires smitten down. _

_ 'Not at all that impressive,' Raphael had thought to himself, 'just you look at this.' _

_ He stretched his hands, palms glowing so faintly in the darkness that leaned onto his like soft sea waves, and he thought. Cupping his palms, he covered one with the other, and thought some more. _

_ In the creamy, soft darkness, he cracked his palms open ever so slightly - a rich, deep crack ran over the black, and glowing embers of scarlet gold peeked at him through with their red eyes. _

_ He opened his palms some more, and the embers hissed, and sizzled, and flecks of fire spilled in a hot breath over the edge of his cupped hand; in the dark, the dim fire settled in that burning ash, and in its heart, light of its own arose. _

_ Then, Raphael opened his palm in full - he blew upon the glimmering gold and scarlet and silver, and it dusted the darkness thickly; and it sank in, and out, and a blaze of a myriad Mornings stole into the cold, crisp darkness. _

_ 'Look, Father,' Raphael had said with a smile, 'I call them Nebula.' _

_ 'GOOD,' God had said, 'SO BE IT. GABRIEL WILL CREATE ME MORE.' _

_ Raphael nodded then, but he thought it better not - he thought his own creations Good all on their own. _

_ With the frail starlight born, doubt sprouted root. _

#

'I really  _ can _ explain, Maze,' Crowley's voice was crisp, rolling from behind the kitchen counter.

'Only if I let you,' with a furious glint hard in her eyes, a dim dancing flame, Mazikeen Smith crossed the laminated floor ⸺ her pace slow in a threatening manner.

'Maze,  _ wait,' _ Chloe said hastily, laying her hands gently on the demon's deeply tanned shoulder; her eyes held a watery grey light to them, 'please, wait.'

'You been crying?' Mazikeen asked bluntly, watching Chloe's face darken with a deep thought, 'what did Crowley do?'

'Beg your  _ pardon?' _ from behind the counter, Crowley's tone stole over with thin mocking, pulled like a veil, paper-thin and crisp, over a spark of genuine offence. In truth, he frowned suspiciously.

'What did you do?' Mazikeen let out a low growl.

'Bloody hell, t'was not me!' he hissed, 'what do you want from me, anyway?'

'To kill you,' she said, near casually. Crowley ran a hand through his copper locks, taking hold of the situation ⸺  _ say _ , he reckoned,  _ two of them want me dead; the humans, well, they just are, really. Them I stand a chance of bending to my will; and then Asmodeus, who doesn't bloody well know what he wants himself.  _

'Tough,' he said, and the sharp smile of it scraped his own ear just as it did the others'.

'Think I won't do it, 'cause- what, Lucifer's your little guardian devil?' Mazikeen said in a tone of loathing, 'He's not here now.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Crowley said, 'Luci gives no shits about me.'

'What's to stop me, then?' shifting uncomfortably, Crowley cut a short glance round the counter ⸺ in the middle of the light floor, Mazikeen towered with an air of fury; next to her, white handkerchief still in her numbing fingers, Chloe now stood uncertainty.

Linda lingered with a confused expression by the couch in the far corner, Amenadiel frowning at her side ⸺ Asmodeus, his expression cold and crisp and flowing with a burning frost, watched Mazikeen closely with suspicion.

'What's to stop you,' Crowley said absently and vaguely; then, he snapped back into himself, 'is your very own orders.'

'What're you on 'bout?' Mazikeen said.

'Don't pretend,' he hissed, catching sight of Asmodeus' searching look that was cast his way, 'you stood in Luci's throne room and swore to never harm me. I was  _ there.' _

Amenadiel frowned; Asmodeus threw glances to Crowley and Maze one after one, lingering on a thought.

'The hell,' Mazikeen said, with a strange tone Crowley had never heard of her, 'yeah, I remember. It's just been a while.'

At that, Crowley smiled with poisonous sweetness, and rose from behind the kitchen counter.

'Who are you?' he asked, looking over at Maze.

'You mad or something?' she said; Crowley saw how Linda frowned at that in her turn, and the sweet manner of his smile deepened.

'You see, Luci doesn't give a shit,' he said, watching her face, 'he never made Maze promise  _ anything _ .'

An acute understanding took hold of Asmodeus' features, and he smiled mildly.

'Oh,' Maze said lightly.

'So, the question is,' Crowley leaned closer in, his elbows on top of the counter, 'who are you?'

An annoyance of a fleeting manner dawned over Mazikeen's features, and then they were melting ⸺ twisting and swirling, like seeping wax; and stilling in a pale, sharp face with a crooked nose and thinly slit lips. The hair bristled and pulled back into the scalp, the lively color giving way to a faint, cold grey with flashes of low blues running the temples in crisp streaks.

Chloe gave a startled, faint gasp and raggedly stepped back.

'What gave me away?' the demon asked calmly, a light French accent stealing into his soft voice ⸺ Crowley thought it similar to sliding silk; to gently crunching sand, to ginger whispers of soft sea waves.

'S'the name,' he said.

'Ah, but of course,' the demon clicked his tongue ⸺ it flashed over his pale lips, a whisper of embering grey, 'Crawly, not Crowley.'

'Exactly,' said Crowley; he saw Asmodeus shoot him an approving glance from beneath a thoughtful frown, 'nevermind that ⸺ what business're you here for, then?'

'None of yours,' the demon said.

'Oi, that's one of mine,' said Crowley, stealing an allowing look Asmodeus' way ⸺ before, however, he could act on it, Amenadiel spoke.

'You,' he said gruffly, a frown sagging his heavy features, 'who are you?'

'I am but an humble representative,' the demon smiled, his lips cracking a sharp crevasse over his face ⸺ his thin lips parted, and his onyx teeth glimmered in the light with the fire of a polished mirror.

'Astaroth,' Asmodeus said mildly, eyes sharp and gaze crisp on the demon's face, 'Lucifer banned us Earthly visits.'

_ 'Really?' _ the demon, whose name was Astaroth, said with a sly smile, pointedly running a look over Asmodeus, 'You don't say.'

'It's different,' Asmodeus offered, shifting in such a way to reach taller in his frame, and broader in his shoulders, 'you don't have permission to be here.'

'Well understood,' said Astaroth with a brisk nod. Amenadiel ran a gaze along his features, a puzzled look growing in the eyes.

'"Of course",' Crowley supplied, stepping from behind the kitchen counter and taking a step towards Astaroth, who stood camly; he made no move for retreat, 'he means "of course". Been spending time with the French?'

'But yes,' the demon said, and then added with a blink of hesitation, 'I like crêpes.'

'Of, for fuck's sake,' Crowley raised his hands in a smooth gesture, fingers covering his eyelids with an air of frustration, 'just say what on Earth it is you want?'

'Nothing you can't give… it's Lucifer's human,' said Astaroth, a sharp smile gracing his thinly cut lips; suddenly cold fingers of silence, fingers of white bone and a chilly air took hold of the room.

'What?' Chloe said, her voice scraping the silence with a deep gash. With haste, her heels clicked on the wooden floor gravely ⸺ she backed another meter or two away, sinking towards the farther corner.

'Chloé,' Astaroth said, the sound smothered and tight in his nose, 'Chloé Decker, no? Isn't that you?'

'What do you want?' she said, fingers numb against the cold metal of her gun as she puller it up towards him; Astaroth smiled mirthlessly at the hollow eye of the gun, and at Chloe's eyes above it, watching him along the glossy silver.

'That's a waste,' he offered, gesturing towards the gun, 'come peacefully, Chloé.'

'It's Chloe, you posh french bastard,' she said through gritted teeth, grip tightening round the iron, its cold leaving a burning impression against her skin.

'Of no import,' said Astaroth, 'come peacefully,  _ Chloe. _ No need to hurt anyone.'

'You're a  _ demon,' _ Amenadiel hissed in his seething fury, shifting to cover Linda behind his broad shoulders, 'you'll hurt someone regardless.'

'Oi, now, watch that,' called Crowley with an air of annoyance, and Asmodeus nodded briefly in agreement. Amenadiel cast them only a pointed glance, sharp.

'Well, you have my word,' Astaroth says, a crisp spark stealing into his smile, 'what is it Lucifer always says, "my word is my bond"?'

'Don't be preposterous,' said Crowley, 'only two demons' word's got worth ⸺ one's in Hell, one's here; ain't you, honey.'

'Who's that, then,  _ you?' _ Amenadiel scoffed softly.

'Not me,' said Crowley simply, and the angel caught his breath; he kept silent, then.

'Well, my word is all you got,' Astaroth smiled, and it was a smile of a twisted manner, one of deceitful softness; of silk draped softly over steel spikes, 'come peacefully.'

'Where?' Chloe asked, the gun's hollow gaze shooting at Astaroth out the long, and black, and deep socket, ' _ where do you want to take me?' _

'Secret, Chloe Decker,' said Astaroth, 'come and see.'

'This is  _ ridiculous _ ,' said Amenadiel, 'it's three of us against one of him.'

' _ Three?' _ Chloe asked in a shaky voice, the gun stern in her fingers.

'Alright, four,' the angel allowed, after a brisk thought.

'You could have all of Heaven,' said Astaroth, in his soft voice that scraped the ear like blades of a paper-thin quality; then, he gave a cruel smile, 'I have the spawn.'

A hush befell the room, time stilling cold like heated panes of metal in a fading furnace cast to freeze; it settled softly like snow in Amenadiel's shaky frown, in the dusty blush that flushed Linda's cheeks; in the heavy, hoarse horror that seeped into Chloe's eyes.

'What?' she said, but it slithered lower than a whisper, lower than a breath.

'I have the spawn,' Astaroth repeated, 'Béatrice, I think ⸺ she didn't say, herself. Calling for her mommy too much.'

'Bastard,' Chloe's finger twitched raggedly on the gun's narrow trigger, 'what did you do to her, you  _ bastard?' _

'Nothing,' he said, 'yet. Like I said, come  _ peacefully _ .'

'Chloe,' Amenadiel called with an air of acute alarm, as Chloe's fingers shifted, trembling, and the gun's hollow gaze lowered slowly towards the floor, 'don't do anything rash.'

'I'll come,' said Chloe, 'I'll come, just don't hurt her. Please.'

'So much for "not doing anything rash",' Crowley murmured in a desperately mocking tone, and hissed faintly as Amenadiel's heavy gaze shot a needle of Grace, burning dim, through his neck.

'Astaroth, in the name of our Dark Lord, I command you to stop,' said Asmodeus in a dark manner, with a twisted, bitter smile light on his lips.

'Pity,' said Astaroth, smiling sharply, his hand sliding like a pale, faint snake round Chloe's waist, 'not my Lord anymore.'

Asmodeus opened his mouth to speak, but the demon's shooting laugh cut him short.

'A wonder you're still his Hand; can't tell a lie from a truth,' Astaroth said, 'Adieu,  _ morons.' _

And with that, the air took a crackling, sharp and shrill splitting to it, and with a crisp snap of his fingers and a flash of his onyx teeth, Astaroth was gone; with him, gone was Chloe, her eyes a desperate flash ⸺ an uneasy silence grasped hold of the room.

#

Deep in the stirring, boiling wail of Hell, Lucifer caught his breath.

  
  



	12. ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴏʀᴛʜ ᴀᴜʀᴏʀᴇ

'THEY'RE JUST GONE!' LINDA Martin cried out in her shrill voice, a whisper of stale terror whispering in her eyes, against her lips.

_ 'Really? _ I hadn't noticed,' said Crowley, fresh venom trickling into his voice ⸺ perhaps for a split second Amenadiel looked as though he would lunge at him; it came and it went, and he kept silent, stealing a glance Asmodeus' way.

'But- but we have to find her!' said Linda hastily, fingers numb and trembling and falling to the narrow pocket of her dress; she produced a phone, whose broad flat screen glimmered in the light, 'Here, I'll call her, and then we can-'

'Oi,' with a sharp, crisp snap of Crowley's fingers her phone slipped away in her trembling hands, and fell into the demon's outstretched palms, 'd'you want her  _ dead? _ Bloody hell, had you rang her- had he  _ heard! _ Can you imagine?'

'I-,' Linda faltered, the thought taking hold of her, and paled to a faint white, 'my God…'

'Not exactly, but whatever helps you,' said Crowley distractedly, turning the sleek, shiny phone in his hands, 'she had one of these on her?'

'I'm assuming, yes,' said Linda.

'Track it?' offered Crowley, 'Can you do that?'

'Of course not,' said Linda with a nervous flash in her tone; then, a flicker light spilled into her eyes, 'the police could.'

'Will they?' asked Asmodeus, in the tones of one who had fallen into utter confusion, yet felt a calling to be of assistance.

'No,' said Amenadiel darkly, and the bitter weight in the air clung to him in deep shadows, in desperate crackles of dust, in the cut of his frown, 'they don't just hand out favours.'

'But she's  _ missing,' _ said Crowley desperately, 'must be a law about that, is there not?'

'They won't track her phone, they'll have a search party, or something,' said Amenadiel. He, much like Asmodeus, was not at all accustomed to human law.

'Is there not a chance?' said Crowley, 'there  _ really _ has to be some kind of law.'

'There might be,' said Linda thoughtfully, the sizzling terror in her voice giving way to a milder, sharper manner of fear that lined her throat like shards of glass, 'We'd have to file a report, of course.'

'Too long,' said Asmodeus, running his pale fingers through is crisp, golden locks, 'in Hell, reports take years to get to.'

'In Hell,' echoed Linda with a sharp note in her voice, one that shot high and piercingly scraped the ear.

'Got any friends in the police?' offered Crowley, 'Anyone open to a bribe, perhaps?'

'Dan,' said Amenadiel briskly, stealing a glance to share a look with Linda, 'of course, he would help.'

'For my sake, brother, I am hoping we are not thinking the same Daniel,' muttered Crowley bitterly, a whisper of a ghost emerging in his mind ⸺ a low, heavy frown; sad, glassy eyes; short, sharp hair, that in his mind looked much like thin splinters of wood.

'Yes,' said Linda to Amenadiel, 'he would.'

'Right, we go find him, then,' said Crowley, biting down his sweet flicker of hope ⸺ he supposed, it didn't much matter.

'Now, hang on a minute,' said Amenadiel with a stern, suspicious air, eyeing Crowley and Asmodeus sharply from beneath his frown, 'what do  _ you _ want?'

'Beg your pardon?'

'You and him, what do you get out of this?'

'Pain in this ass, that's what,' hissed Crowley, first with a glint of anger, after ⸺ with a smoldering ember of bitterness, 'come  _ on _ , Amenadiel, what can I  _ possibly _ be plotting?'

'I never said you were plotting,' said Amenadiel coldly.

'You thought it,' offered Asmodeus distractedly, a growling, burnishing thought rising in his eyes, hazing them over thinly, 'loudly.'

'I did no-'

'Did you hear what Astaroth said?' Asmodeus broke him off, turning to face Crowley; in the way he eyed him, in the deep, molten look in his frank blue eyes, he saw a growing fear ⸺ that terror, whatever it was, cast Asmodeus' voice into breaking, 'about the Dark Lord?'

'No.'

'"Not my Lord anymore", he said,' murmured Asmodeus, fingers tugging mildly at the soft flash of purple against his neck, 'what do you think he meant?'

'A new Dark Lord, I dunno,' offered Crowley, 'after Dromos and Squee, I s'posed more would come.'

'Just not so quickly,' Asmodeus nodded, still sodden in the atmosphere of the flush of his realisation. 

'A new Dark Lord?' Amenadiel said, carefully, in his deep voice, 'Surely, it cannot be. Luci is the King of Hell.'

'He is, but, in theory,  _ anyone _ can be,' said Asmodeus grimly, 'anyone who was an angel.'

'Yes, in  _ theory _ ,  _ I _ could take the Throne,' said Crowley, 'there really is no politics in Hell; you'd just have to take it while no one's on it.'

'But Luci's back now,' reasoned Amenadiel hopefully, ' _ he _ is on the Throne.'

'Well, they could defeat him, and take it like that,' allowed Crowley in a heavy tone, 'would have be a Fallen Angel ⸺ a third of Heaven of those we got; could be  _ anyone. _ '

'Amenadiel,' said Linda in a faint manner, gracing his shoulder with a soft touch; then, she stopped short, 'Amenadiel, do you think, Charlie-'

'No,' said Amenadiel harsly, 'no, he's still here ⸺ I can sense him.'

'But do you think they would want  _ him _ ,' said Linda shakily.

'No,' he repeated, 'they'd never have chosen a half-blood over an Angel fully Fallen had they an option.'

'Look, it doesn't actually  _ matter _ ,' said Crowley, ' _ unfortunately _ , Luci's immortal ⸺ they won't land a scratch anyway.'

A dim look ran between Linda and Amenadiel as they snuck a glance full to the brim of pale meaning; Crowley saw his brother's features sag in a manner of realisation.

'Shit,' he hissed.

'What?' asked Crowley, 'what?'

'Lucifer's, he's, uh- he's not,' muttered Linda lowly, grasping just below the soft, blurred brim of hearing.

'Speak up,' said Asmodeus, a rare blaze of annoyance taking hold of him; for a fleeting split of a second, the frank blue of his eye seeped away, giving way to a deep, stinging hollow ⸺ it came, and went, and his soft look was back.

'She  _ said _ ,' pressed Amenadiel pointedly, near growling at Asmodeus, 'Lucifer is not immortal.'

'Bullshit,' said Crowley dismissively, 'that's bullshit.'

'Chloe Decker makes him vulnerable,' said Amenadiel, 'when she's close, he can be hurt ⸺ he can be shot, he can be killed.'

'No,' Crowley said, the quality of disbelief in his tone growing to an astonishing manner of calmness, 'no, he can't be.'

'Well, he  _ is, _ ' said Amenadiel, annoyed.

'Oh,  _ Heaven,' _ said Crowley, a sharpness rising in his eyes to a long, deep way of a dark glimmer; something twisting, something turning ⸺ something quiet, and old; older than Asmodeus knew, 'I could⸺'

' _ Crowley,' _ said Asmodeus in a warning tone, 'now, be  _ reasonable.' _

The deep, hungry burbling in the demon's features fell abruptly short, the sharp point sinking back away into the mist ⸺ there, and gone.

'Yes,' he rasped, clearing his throat, 'yes, of course. I, uh⸺ well, at least we now know why they need the Detective.'

'Yes,' said Amenadiel; then, he snapped into a commanding tone, 'now, Linda, you stay here. Look after Charlie ⸺ find the real Maze. You,' he made a gesture towards the two demons, 'follow me.'

'What, so you're in charge now?' Crowley hissed mockingly.

'Might as well be,' said Amenadiel, measuring Crowley with a glance full of soft loathing.

'Oh, I see.'

'A man can only hope,' said Amenadiel ⸺ and then, before Crowley's frown fell apart, he supplied, 'time to go, quickly. Follow me.'

' _ Get thee behind me, foul fiend,' _ mused Crowley first with faint venom, then ⸺ with a dusty memory.

He trailed Asmodeus and his brother down the narrow grey stairs that trickled down the dusty building. In his mind, he hoped greatly that no harm would befall Aziraphale ⸺  _ an angel can defend himself, _ he thought,  _ can't he; can't he? _

#

'FIRST THING'S FIRST,' SAID Lucifer ⸺ Aziraphale heard a serrated edge to his tone, and eyed his face suspiciously, 'suppose, someone impersonated me. Only six could pull that off ⸺ Asmodeus, Astaroth, Azazel, Belial, Leviathan and Beelzebub.'

'Right,' said Aziraphale, the look of suspicion in his eyes giving way to awe; his eyes had sheathed their divine flicker of light, and had smitten down into a plain, light blue, 'I suppose we should go in the order of likeliness. Who would you say, my dear, is most probable to have done it?'

'Why, any and all of them,' said Lucifer with a sharp smile, 'perhaps, Asmodeus. Then, Astaroth. Beelzebub, well, may indeed be. Azazel and Belial are off on  _ business _ , and Leviathan just… wouldn't.'

'Asmodeus it is, then,' said Aziraphale, 'lead the way, dear.'

'No, that's  _ rubbish _ ,' said Lucifer, waving a pale hand for the angel to follow him, 'have you ever,  _ ever _ , heard a demon say  _ my dear _ ?'

'You wouldn't believe,' smiled Aziraphale with a sly air, and a crisp, dusty flush stole over his cheeks.

'Oh, do  _ tell,' _ said Lucifer, a whisper of a spark on his tongue, however, in a way of foreboding made the words bitter.

'Well, as you wish,' his blush grew deeper, the colours seeping into stains of vivid fire, 'that night Crowley and I⸺'

'On  _ second thought,'  _ Lucifer cut in hastily, stopping the angel short with a distasteful frown, 'keep your adventures with my brother to yourself.'

'You asked, my dear,' shrugged Aziraphale, following in Lucifer's steps hesitantly onto the streets of Hell below the tower; from its root, it loomed sharp and black, shooting away into the ashen sky and smoldering its tip in the darkness.

'How do you stand all this ash?' the angel wondered softly, and already in his hair, locks glimmering now black and silver, flecks of pale white hid like twisted snowflakes.

'I don't, of course,' offered Lucifer, 'look.'

He moved a cupped palm forth, as though to capture a handful of flakes trickling slowly from the plumes of silky darkness that clung to the skies of Hell ⸺ instead, the burnished fleck swayed aside, pulled by some invisible force, and bent its way towards the ground.

'It avoided you,' said Aziraphale, regarding Lucifer's clean, pale palm with a guided curiosity, 'impressive.'

'Why, of course,' said Lucifer, 'can you imagine Raphael once said I was arrogant because I didn't want to smear myself in ash?'

' _ Crowley _ ,' corrected Aziraphale softly, 'yes, I imagine he would.'

'Crowley,' scoffed Lucifer, pulling in long, steady steps over the ashen ground, and perhaps for a moment a shadow chased his expression, 'talk about a cool demon name.'

'Have a better one?'

'Well, obviously,' he said, 'there's not a better demon name than Lucifer.'

'No, my dear, I meant ⸺ a better name for Crowley,' supplied Aziraphale distractedly, eyeing the narrow street that was trailing and twisting down a mild hill; with wonder in his gaze, he let out an awed breath at the sight of a river.

He paid Lucifer's low murmur of 'Moron Redhead' no mind.

The river cracked the ground open on his left hand side, blackened trails of smoke seeping from the surface, a manner of light, fiery mist clinging low to the hasty flow ⸺ below, it ran along the ash-clad stone in thin wisps, in ribbons of black, cutting down intently with a brittle sound, with a scent of a sultry furnace. What had, however, stricken him most was the water ⸺ a deep silvery onyx, it swallowed up patches of ash that sunk into it, and cracked them apart into nothing; it the dim red fires stealing up the sky, onyx stone and ash alike streaked with pale colour ⸺ the water, however, did not reflect any light.

'Careful, angel,' said Lucifer softly, 'don't touch it.'

'What is it? Some kind of river?' he watched the river snip apart and dig back into the onyx stone not six feet down the narrow street.

'The Dark Waters of Hell,' said Lucifer, 'nothing keeps in them long; not ash, not flesh ⸺ not even the light.'

'Does it harm demons?' asked Aziraphale with keen interest, 'Perhaps, it's like Holy Water?'

'Everything, angel,' said Lucifer, waving him to move on, 'it swallows everything.'

As they passed down, Aziraphale felt a light whisper roll through his mind ⸺ had there been wind in Hell, he would have mistaken it for a soft wisp of air. It was smitten, and intent, and despite the way it dove in and out of his hearing, something twisted tugged at his will.

He glanced lightly at the water, and the dim breath in his mind grew a louder quality; more vivid, more deep. Perhaps for a split second he considered touching the river; he slowed his step.

'Oi, angel,' the shrill, distasteful sound of Lucifer's voice tore through the veil in his mind, 'can you possibly walk any slower?'

'Can't you hear it?' asked Aziraphale with guarded suspicion.

'Yes; I hear is time ticking on,' said Lucifer, 'come on, chop-chop.'

'Yes,' said the angel slowly, taking care not too look at the black water, 'yes, my dear, of course.'

Still sodden in his heavy thought, he hurried down the street.

#

CHLOE'S HEELS HIT THE floor with a grave click, the hand twisted round her waist holding her from losing balance. The air that spilled round her was crisp and chilly, and the room, which was swaying lightly round her, was a tapestry in cold greys, and dusty blacks, and a thick streak of red crawling with dim scarlet fire that ran along the walls.

Shakily, she looked across the sleek wooden chair dwarfing one of the corners, the sagged grey sofa in the middle of the stained floor, and the single elegant vase, woven of crossing and splitting metal wires, glittering a rich gold and deep scarlet. A crisp blue ribbon of glistening silk was woven into the metal rods.

'Where are we?' she asked carefully, as the frost of the hand on her waist pulled away.

'Won't tell you that,' said Astaroth, running a hand through the flash of blue hair seeping from his temple back. He crossed to a narrow window which was spilling cold, bright light into the room, and with a snap of his fingers the thick glass blurred over.

Perhaps a glimpse of thin, low buildings clammed in clusters Chloe caught sight of, and they were gone.

'Where's Trixie?' asked Chloe, frowning at the empty room with its three pieces of furniture.

'How should I know?' said Astaroth dismissively, and gestured towards the chair in the further corner, 'Sit.'

'Where is Trixie?' repeated Chloe.

'I say, I don't know,' Astaroth's eyes flashed with a deep, dangerous manner of fire, 'sit.'

Glaring at him with a sharp fury in her eyes, Chloe crossed the floor and sank into the chair. The dusty wood held no warmth to it, cold against her back, cold against her arms ⸺ a biting, sharp frost, that reminded her of the way Astaroth's hand burned.

The demon snapped his fingers, and one of her wrists was manacled to the arm of the chair with an onyx chain, glazed over with paper-thin ribbons of golden writing. The wooden legs melted like wax into the floor, growing root into it.

'Why am I here?' Chloe asked, gently trying the chain. 

'Stop asking questions,' said Astaroth with distaste in his voice, graced with a light french accent, 'not better than Raphael.'

Chloe parted her lips to let the word  _ 'who' _ out, but promptly decided against it, and it died on her tongue.

'As for your spawn,' offered Astaroth, throwing himself onto the sofa and sparing her a sharp smile, 'might be in Hell, for all I know.'

'What?' Chloe let out a strangled gasp, twitching at the notion; she faded off, a burning bitterness rising in her mouth, and started quietly, 'You- you mean she-'

'Could be dead, yes,' allowed Astaroth lightly, lolling his head back into the sofa and turning his eyes towards the sizzling light that fell from the wide lamps over them; he laced his pale fingers together, 'as I said, I know not.'

'But-,' whispered Chloe, 'but-'

' _ Merde _ , humans,' scoffed Astaroth, 'don't die from a heart insult just yet. She's probably alive.'

'What have you done?' hissed Chloe, her eyes hazing over with a watery mist ⸺ from fury, from fear.

'Nothing,' said Astaroth calmly, his face twisted with the sharp crack of his smile, onyx teeth glimmering like polished jewels, 'I didn't even see your spawn.'

Chloe opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Dim plumes of smoky fire and streaks of flush stole over her sheeks in bright patches of red.

'What,' she managed, stopping short and fading off.

'For the love of heavens,' said Astaroth, 'humans are such morons. I lied, clever madame.'

'You lied,' echoed Chloe faintly.

'But yes,' said Astaroth, a twisted, sharp manner of pride rising in his tone, 'and Asmodeus believed me, that moron.'

'So- you don't have her?'

'No,' said Astaroth, smiling with a wild note to it, a rich, carving shade, 'but I have you.'

***

A high ring split the air of Daniel Espinoza's stuffy new office, whose ceiling was scraped by columns of taped cardboard boxes.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
